


Killing Field

by AlexisGreen (thealexmachina), thealexmachina



Category: Mass Effect (Comics), Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bombing, Chemical Weapons, Confident Garrus, Conspiracy, Death, Dirty Talk, Drama & Romance, Espionage, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forensics, Gun Violence, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Light Bondage, Military, Military Backstory, Military Uniforms, More tags to follow, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, References to Illness, Sex Toys, Shakarian - Freeform, Smut, Terrorism, To follow, Violence, War, contemporary, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-05-04 04:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14584971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealexmachina/pseuds/AlexisGreen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealexmachina/pseuds/thealexmachina
Summary: Jane Shepard and Garrus Vakarian crossed paths in the past - brief yet memorable. When they meet again, it's with common purpose - they join forces to expose Saren Arterius as a deep cover agent in the United Nations Council. Surrounded by war, loss and enemies, they risk everything, including the attraction that still simmers between them, to achieve their goal.





	1. Truth Confined

**Author's Note:**

> Jane and Garrus' first meeting is chronicled in "Biting'. Does what is says on the tin. "Killing Field' is the story of five years after, higher stakes and shared ambitions. Starts with ME 1 storyline, although adapted for contemporary setting. Hope you enjoy!

Government contractor, my ass, she thinks. She didn’t care much about his job five years ago; there was little conversation involved that night on the whole. Shepard is very interested now though. There are exactly three people on this base that know about her suspicions about Arterius; two if she excludes herself. Garrus Vakarian is not one of them.

Suspicion and curiosity draw her nearer the two men, some anonymity afforded by the constant flow of people in the atrium of Arcturus base. They both wear civilian clothing, although that’s no longer surprising on its own. The Alliance and the United Nations Council both outsourced so many jobs, plenty organisations now straddle the fine line between government-paid versus government-empowered. What’s interesting is the gist of the conversation, which she quickly gets. Vakarian is definitely getting a dress down, probably from his superior, although the latter’s rank is… uncertain. She’s wandered close enough to hear the hissed instruction to “Drop this nonsense or your ass is on the line.”

Shepard moves on after this. There’s someone she needs to see and that someone - just like many others in nearly every unit on the base - owes her a favour. Four hours later, a rather slim file on Garrus Vakarian is on the tiny desk in the closet she calls her office in Pozzallo. It’s definitely a heavily redacted version; she’s still miffed that her contact in Personnel, Hans-with-glasses, not Hans-with-cute-freckles in Recruitment, dropped it off for her rather than email it. Correspondence from Vakarian, a chain of emails dated this morning, is attached at the end of the file. By a stroke of luck, it hasn’t been censored, yet. It sends goose bumps down her arms; it’s clearly the reason Glasses Hans couldn’t wait to get rid of her favour. More importantly it’s a lead, one she badly needs.

Anderson’s office is slightly larger than a closet; two steps inside the door, she stands in front of him, watching him wrap up a phone call. She can’t begrudge the Council their space allocation. The squad is hardly around anyway, spending more time in the field that any of the others on base.

She barely gives the captain a chance to hang up and the file lands in front of him. “Garrus Vakarian. C-Sec. What do you know about these guys? What do they do?”

Acquainted already with her motor mouth syndrome, Anderson keeps up easily. “I know a few things. Citadel Security. Usually focused on high-spec missions, security, anti-terro. Renditions, extractions. No idea who’s in charge though.”

“We need to find out. We need him on our payroll.”

“Why?”

She leans across the desk to flip to the last pages in the folder. “He’s been investigating Saren for months. Prior, he’s worked intelligence in Libya and Iraq. Two weeks ago, he was in Syria; he’s worked with FSA before. How much you want to bet that he has a hunch about what happened at Eden Prime?”

It’s hard to tone down her enthusiasm when her instincts are fired up. Anderson somehow manages to reign her in; that’s one of the reasons she respects him. He always asks the right questions. Now, he gives it to her straight. “Shepard. I know losing Jenkins hit hard. Nihlus even worse. I’ve got to ask. Are you sure about Saren?”

Shepard owes him her honesty in return. “Sure? No, not until I have evidence. But I’m certain Vakarian suspects Saren of going rogue. And since we know there’s just me, you and Hackett who know about Eden Prime, it’s likely that Saren’s involved with much more than just testing a nerve agent on a refugee camp. With or without other incidents, Vakarian’s experience alone can help us get to the bottom of this.”

“Okay, Shepard. Leave it with me.”

She’s doing inventory a few hours later, when she’s summoned back to Anderson’s office by the vibration of an incoming text on her phone. Vakarian’s there, taking up a hell of a lot of space. If he’s surprised to see her, it doesn’t show. Anderson explains his transfer quickly. His experience is needed on the Normandy’s next mission and C-Sec was happy to loan him. The captain doesn’t mention Saren, but the nod he gives her as he dismisses them both lets her know she can play it however she sees fit.

Vakarian grabs the duffle bag stowed at his feet and follows her out and just like this, he’s squad and he reports to her. Despite the fact she spent nearly all of their prior encounter _under him_. There’s no time to spend wondering whether he’s recognised her; he cuts straight through any bullshit with a twitch to the corner of his mouth. “We meet again, N7.”

“Vakarian. At least you didn’t lie about your name,” she says, although there’s only humour in her voice.

“I didn’t lie at all. Garrus Vakarian, C-Sec.” He gives her the world’s worst impression of what-you-see-is-what-you-get. “I work for the government. You just assumed I was a contractor.”

A man of few words. That hasn’t changed; he’s right, he didn’t lie. Much. “You work for the Council. But fair enough. Come on, I’ll get you introduced, then show you our quarters. Don’t get too attached, we’re off as soon as our transport is cleared.”

Most of the squad is killing time in the rec room. Jeff’s shooting something up, headphones in, hands jerking a console remote with more enthusiasm than she’s seen him most of the time on the field. Kaidan’s playing online poker and Ashley is Skyping with her family. She’s just joined the team, after their mission on Eden Prime, so Shepard doesn’t know her well. What she’s figured out so far is that Ashley is tough but fair and a damn good soldier.

A notification from Anderson’s already reached the squad by the time she walks in with Vakarian. Jeff, Joker Shepard calls him, waves then gets back to his game. Kaidan shakes his hand, welcomes him to the crew. They’re all normal people, doing normal things in a not-so-normal world.

Shepard leaves Vakarian making small talk with Ashley; he jokes about most of his time on Skype asking others if they can hear him and she gives them space to chat without the commanding officer hovering. This is possibly her favourite place on Arcturus. Wide and tall windows face Pozzallo harbour, the beautiful Mediterranean Sea less than a mile away.

While she watches, a rescue boat pulls in. The upper deck is crowded; she can pick out the yellow lifejackets dotting the crowd. It’s been another one of those days. The Med is not much of a tourist attraction in these parts; it is however one of the main landing sites for refugees in Europe. The boat has now docked. It’s search and rescue definitely, although she can’t make out the organisation from a distance. Tens of them patrol every day and she is grateful for every life they save. Politically, it’s dangerous. Italians threaten NGOs with arrests over aiding illegal immigration. Greece, Malta have already done it. The passengers are now shuffling off towards the immigration officers posted on the dock. She doesn’t need to be closer to know what they must be feeling, relief at reaching Italy, anxiety at what happens next - the path is long ahead yet - more relief. Dread; one way or another, every single person on that dock has suffered loss, on the journey or back home. No one feels safe. It’s important to remember, she tells herself, what the stakes are. Lest we forget.

A shadow growing on the window in front of her alerts her to Vakarian’s presence. Shepard nods towards the courtyard just below, another hive of activity on the base at any hour. To his credit, Vakarian gets the code for let’s talk outside and follows in her footsteps. Up close, he towers over her and he can easily outpace her; instead he syncs up his steps a little behind her, just enough to let anyone know that they’re walking together.

Surrounded by people, they can talk a little easier. She doesn’t worry about her squad, not even about Ashley. They’re loyal and they’ve either been vetted or tested extensively. No, it’s the rest of the base she worries about, surveillance in their quarters, monitored media and comms, all the glorious shit that comes with the digital age.

Vakarian speaks first. “I saw you this morning, Shepard. You should know I don’t forget faces.” It sounds like he doesn’t forget many things and the implications make her shudder. Slightly. “Then there was this funny trace left on my file from someone in Human Resources. My clearance is high enough that I get alerted when my file is accessed. There’re no coincidences in our line of work, commander, so why don’t you fill me in on what you want and then we can get to what we can do for each other?”

“Saren Arterius.”

One name, two words, and his posture changes from casual to focused. “What about him?”

“Five days ago, we were tipped off about a stash of nerve agent. Proximity to Eden Prime, a refugee camp on the Syrian border, made it priority. My squad and I investigated. We found a cell, holed up in the mountains nearby. My corporal got shot down; we buried him yesterday. We shut down the cell, but chemicals had already spread to part of the camp. Forty-two casualties altogether, including Nihlus Kryik, our FSA agent and a long-time collaborator.”

“How does Saren feature in all this?”

“A couple of witnesses put him at Eden Prime a couple of days before our arrival and the attack. I didn’t think too much of it, but thought I’d investigate anyway. His office denies his presence in the camp, despite photographs widely available and flight records have been deleted. We also intercepted comms that suggested help for the execution of the nerve gas attack came from inside, a general or higher in the Council.”

“Circumstantial, wouldn’t you say?”

His matter of fact tone is just that, fact, no judgement. She gets the sense that he’s been at that end of the argument a lot. “Agreed. Which is why I’ve shared my suspicions with only two other people. Well, three now. I want to find evidence that sticks and I think you can make that happen.”

He takes his time, no doubt thinking what to share. His eyes tell her that he’s going on a limb trusting her on this. “I know nothing of Eden Prime specifically. But I have spent the last year looking at a large bunch of failed Alliance missions and nearly all of them link up to Saren in one way or another. I’m talking ninety percent of the time.” He stops and carefully surveys their surroundings. “I’ve also heard talk of a high-placed deep cover agent in the Council for about the same amount of time. It cannot be a coincidence. So, I started looking into it, not just Saren, but most of the Council. About eight months ago, I started focusing just on him; I’ve trailed him all over the region and tried to keep track of other leads. My informants often turn up dead; when they don’t, there’s not enough to go on and when there is, the Alliance blocks every attempt at an internal investigation.”

“Joker will help set your encrypted email up. Can you share your files when ready? I’ll cross reference with our missions, see if we can add more pieces to the puzzle.”

“Sure thing. You’ll have them tonight.” She turns to move back towards the crew quarters when his hand on her arm stops her, brief touch as confident as five years back.  
  
“Hey, N7? How do you want to play this?” He gestures between them, smile light, eyes honest. “Pretend we’ve never met? Or make up some story?” There’s a moment when he almost starts on her, then changes his mind, sticking to the small distance between them. “Repeat performance, maybe?”

Shepard can’t help it; she snorts, laughs and acts as if her cheekbones aren’t on fire. She deflects with a question of her own. “What do you want, Vakarian?”

His eyes are still candid, but his voice lowers, guarded. “Honestly, commander? I don’t know. And I don’t think you do either.”


	2. Battles Have Begun

Seeing it throws her. The blue is back. A thick line of paint under each eye, a dab between his eyebrows. War paint, that’s what it reminds her of; so out of place in that crowded bar in Tripoli years ago, quite fitting here on the tarmac, as Vakarian stands straight awaiting orders.

In Anderson’s office last night, they went through Vakarian’s intel and files, and debated next steps. First up, Idlib. Anderson wants a local mercenary to join her squad temporarily, help them navigate the rebel factions. After years of civil unrest, Syria is not just a dangerous place, it’s also a political minefield. Navigating the allegiances of local tribes and officials is as important to staying alive as armour and ammunition. Vakarian’s agreed to this plan, though reluctantly. More people aware of the mission means more chances for failure. The captain vouches for this guy though, so that’s ends the discussion. They have the coordinates, and once this mercenary joins them, they’re cleared to go after Saren.

Cases are being loaded in an aircraft headed for Syria. Joker and Kaidan usually pack light. Their equipment is stashed neatly and economically, adapted to years of squad life on the move. Ashley fits right in, bag ready at her feet, Kevlar vest on. It’s Vakarian who hasn’t gotten the memo, judging by the three containers behind him. Before she can comment on his lack of frugality, Joker signals to an incoming notification. “Hey, Commander? We’ve got two Makos waiting for us in Masyaf. I call dibs on driving one.” 

Shepard’s ready to put money on Vakarian having something to do with this unexpected luxury. Kaidan too, because he walks up to Shepard and he isn’t quiet. “We get a second Mako? That’s never happened. We can cover a lot more ground now.” He lowers his voice, side-eyeing Vakarian. “Who’s this guy, Batman? There’s a small data centre packed in there, more chemicals than a meth lab and several sniper guns.”

Good, he knows what he’s doing, then, she thinks. Shepard hopes all her instincts about him are true; they need a win badly. “Play nice and he might share his toys,” she tells Kaidan with a wink. “He’s one of us now.” She pats him on the back and moves to stand next to Ashley. Meeting Vakarian’s eyes briefly, she nods. “Lift off in 10, everyone.”

They land in Syria seven hours later. Masyaf is just an airstrip and a couple of hangars in the middle of a rocky patch of dessert, about two hundred klicks northwest of Homs. Syrian rebels have held the place for the last two years and it’s one of the few places the Alliance can count on to put troops on the ground safely. They bunk there till daylight. One more sleep on actual beds is not something anyone says no to, even when said beds are nothing more than canvas on creaky frames. By six o’clock, they’re loaded in the Makos, Shepard behind the wheel of the first, Joker making good on his dibs in the second. Unbidden, Vakarian slides into the seat next to her, movements fluid on a man his size plus armour. She wants to kick herself for noticing and hopes he’s done the exact opposite and not spotted her eyes on him so often.

Joker’s voice comes through the intercom a few minutes into the drive. “Shepard, who can I worship for the suspension on this baby? Our Mako’s running smoother than a hot knife through butter.”

“No idea, Jeff. Speak to maintenance on Arcturus.” Shepard’s never been a careful driver. She’s not exactly paid attention to suspension before, however Joker is right. Either the roads in Western Syria have been paved or the Mako's a lot more comfortable than she remembers. She knows which one's more likely. 

“I did, they had no idea what I’m talking about. And they knew nada about our shields either – I’ve never seen these specs on a Mako before. We might actually survive an IED. Don’t worry,” he quickly amends, “I’m not gonna test that theory.”

“Bye, Jeff.” Shepard signs off. On a hunch, she turns to her new squad mate. His fingers haven’t stopped moving on the tablet on his knees, a satellite map covered with annotations in front of him. “If you’re responsible for the upgrades on the Mako, Jeff’ll be your best friend.”

“Noted,” he smiles briefly, then goes back to his map. “We have a six-hour drive ahead, mind if I send Jeff coordinates for a new route? Just got an update on patrols around Hama. I want to avoid reports of our presence, at least until unavoidable.”

“Go ahead.” He’s all business, and she appreciates it. Driving a Mako is second nature to her though and with her body and reflexes on auto-pilot, she can use a little distraction from the anxiety and stress of a new mission threatening to overwhelm her head. “Tell me something, Vakarian,” she says. “Why chase Arterius so hard?”

He stops typing but doesn’t answer straight away. Shepard’s seen him hesitate yesterday too; it’s his way of resolving what to share, how much of it, and she can pinpoint the decision to trust her with his motivation in the way his spine straightens. It’s like there’s still weight on his shoulders, but it gets easier to carry, at least for a short while. “These last few years have been one dead end after another. I’ve wasted time waiting for decisions or orders to be signed while my sources, collaborators, friends,” there’s more weight in the words now, “got blown to pieces. This conflict’s personal, it’s become personal. This might not sound rational but getting out or letting this go feels more like a failure than anything in my life.”

“No one’s a stranger to loss here, Vakarian. Thinking it’s your personal mission to end this war is not healthy though.” She regrets the words as soon as she says them. She’s not the most adept at camaraderie at best of times and she doesn’t know him enough to avoid offending him. 

“Like you’re one to talk, N7. I’ve read your file too. Pretty long one; I bet it’s less censored than mine was.” 

Shepard swings her eyes to him; she curses slightly as she swerves at same time, surprised at being called out for her bullshit. She puts the Mako back on track. He’s right, she’s a huge hypocrite because what has she done for the entirety of her military career other than throw herself head first into any war zone and treat it like a personal vendetta? “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” 

She keeps her eyes on the road. Her squared shoulders relax minutely when he nudges her elbow. “Don’t mention it. Do you want a debrief on Idlib?” There’s no judgement in his voice. In fact, he keeps it light even after her spectacular case of foot in mouth.

Shepard nods and a couple of hours go by, talk strictly focused on route, locations to avoid, strategy to deal with checkpoints and tactical actions once they reach Idlib. It’s during a five-minute comfort break that Joker finds out Vakarian’s the one behind the sweet upgrades to their wheels. His admiration reaches stratospheric proportions when Vakarian admits to even more specs added to the defence system and the guns equipped on the armoured vehicles, though he refuses to disclose how he has access to the tech. Shepard has her suspicions about his sources; not for the first time in the last forty-eight hours, she hopes she’s right in being thankful that someone like him is on their side, for once.

They get to Idlib with daylight hours to spare. Joker’s in charge of their vehicles, while Kaidan and Ashley scope out the camps scattered on the outskirts for intel. Shepard and Vakarian head to Chora’s, a small tavern on the southside of the town, their rendezvous point with Anderson’s mercenary. 

The tavern is a real dive, its low roof and metal sheet walls no different to most buildings around. There’s noise and local music inside and a steady stream of people coming and going. Most carry weapons and not just a few have armed escorts; that’s how they know this is where business gets done, money and power moving in dark corners, just like everywhere else in the world. There’s a commotion at the door when they arrive; a tall, burly man argues with a couple of guards. Shepard’s familiar with several Arabic dialects but doesn’t help much; the languages of Syria are as varied as its population, so she doesn’t understand much of the argument. Out of uniform and dressed in dusty black, hood pulled low over forehead to cover her red hair, she steers clear of the guards and slips inside. Behind her, Vakarian manages to be even more inconspicuous; shoulders down, head bowed, his size nearly blends into the crowd. They take a seat at a low table and sip mint tea, taking turns to scan the tavern for any sign of their mercenary.

Conversation is casual, less personal, low maintenance. They talk about traveling (which they both agree they do very little of, outside… well, work) and weather (Shepard misses snow, Vakarian’s totally happy not seeing snow for the next decade). An hour goes by and although they’ve managed to synchronise their spying prowess and have overheard a couple hundred business deals, all illegal, that’s pretty much all they’ve achieved. There’s no one matching the merc’s description and the timing of their meeting is now long past.

It’s dark when they leave. The crowd outside has thinned considerably, danger now more palpable in the air. Shepard pings the squad, puts them on standby for their arrival, when Vakarian touches her elbow lightly and whispers in her ear. They reach a street market, a lively place, smell of hot food and spices permeating the air. They split up; Shepard carries on, straight for the team location. The streets get quieter again; away from crowded places, no one has any desire to linger outside walls anywhere in this town. Not even a stray dog keeps her company and that’s just as she wants it.

She rounds a corner, then drops low against a wall, masked by darkness. She waits for footsteps to come near, one hand on the Charger at her back. She steps out in the little light on the street, looking up right at the hulk of a man following her. “Who are you?” 

There’s only silence, heavy, and then the bounce of light on another gun, this time pointed at the man from behind. “You heard her. Answer the question,” Vakarian asks. He's done a loop around the market and followed Shepard from a distance, closing in on her location at just the right time.

The man’s laugh is silent but still pretty clear. The man outside Chora’s, arguing. That’s him. “Commander Shepard? I’m Urdnot Wrex. Captain Anderson thought you might need my help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. You are awesome. Yeah, you! <3


	3. Choose to Survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some action. Tags updated for violence and mentions of bodily functions. Please note.

Wrex has family in a village not more than ten klicks out. A brief check in with Anderson to verify the merc’s identity and they’re on their way. It’s a good decision, to hole up for the night and regroup. Turkish Air Force shot down a Russian plane tonight and Syrian troops have been dispatched at border points. Anderson’s given them a good cover and their UN mission will stand up even to vigorous scrutiny. One trigger-happy patrol though and they’re either dust or at best, one diplomatic incident away from never working again.

The village is tiny and certainly not wealthy; whatever little they have, Wrex’s family welcomes them with open arms and no questions asked. A couple of kids abandon a game of hide-and-seek and gawk at the fire power that has rolled into their back yard. A tall woman hugs Wrex and waves to them. “ _Marhaba_ ,” she says. There’s food waiting and cold water to wash their hands and faces, she adds in English. Cousins, Wrex shrugs, as if that explains everything. Garrus supposes it does; family means so much more out here, where life is hard and not taken for granted.

Their vehicles are quickly hidden under tarps; best not to tempt any drone handler into looking more closely. He splits security duties with Kaidan. Alenko takes the perimeter sweep, infrared goggles on, assault rifle at the ready. Garrus meanwhile checks their lodgings. He is as thorough as he is unobtrusive, ducking in and out of the maze of low houses, looking for hidden surveillance, swiping for traces of explosives. It’s a detailed job, but both work efficiently. Within thirty minutes, they’re eating together with Wrex’s family, crispy falafel, _fattush_ and lamb _kibbeh_ so tasty it makes Shepard groan shamelessly next to him. It’s a wholesome picture, family, children and guests sharing food; almost enough to ignore Wrex’s inquisitive stare.

A big man, shaven head and overgrown stubble that hides some of the scars on his face, their new Syrian partner is mostly silent for now. Questions will surely follow, and Garrus is not sold on the idea that they should share their plans with this complete stranger and self-confessed mercenary.

Shepard shares at least some of his reticence. When only their squad and Wrex remain in the room and the rest of his family has turned in for the night, she cautiously explains the incident at Eden Prime. She sticks only to the facts they know – an investigation into stocks of nerve agent backfired and the refugee camp was the scene of a subsequent attack, with grave loss of human life. They’re here to continue that investigation; the possibility that the nerve agent is used elsewhere is too great to ignore. She doesn’t mention Saren once.

Anderson’s intel appears to be correct. Wrex does indeed have information they can use. “Two things,” he says, sipping strong coffee from a chipped mug. “One, word is the Syrian army is after someone. Patrols along the whole north east have been given orders to shoot on sight. I don’t have particulars. I might know more by tomorrow.”

“I thought troops moved out to prevent Russian and Turkish conflict, after the plane went down tonight?”

Wrex nods to Ashley in acknowledgement. “Flash went out at five am. First troops deployed an hour later. That Su-25 went down tonight. You do the math.” His head shakes in doubt. Wrex turns back to Shepard, back to the evidence. “Two, and my gut says they’re related, there’s rumour of a data leak being shopped around to the FSA. I’ve been trying to find out more but came up blank. I thought I had a solid lead at Chora’s tonight but it didn’t stick.”

“You think this is related to Eden Prime?”

Kaidan’s question is directed at Shepard, but Wrex replies instead. “Big coincidence if not. I’m not a fan of coincidences, not in my line of work. They can cost you an arm, maybe more, real quick.”

Garrus has to admit the merc makes a valid point. On their own, events could be isolated. In the space of four days, on a radius of two hundred square miles though? No chance. And yet there’s something that doesn’t quite gel. “If someone has data to leak, why bring it into Syria? Black market, media or governments, many would pay for it.”

“Vakarian is right,” Shepard says. “Why FSA? They’re not exactly big on tech savvy.”

“Protection. Or payback. Maybe both.” Wrex sounds tired now, and not due to lack of sleep. “My hunch is we’re dealing with someone familiar with this cursed war and how things get done here. Sell it and you risk it falling into worse hands. Bring the data to the Council and they’ll take weeks to verify authenticity alone. By then, whoever’s responsible is long gone and it’d take a miracle to stop another hit.”

Wrex leaves them after that. A quick rota in place for safety, and Ashley takes first watch. The rest of them offload sleeping bags and hit the sack. Garrus’ brain is too wired to stay quiet for long. About three hours later, he stretches his legs silently and tries to cling onto this reprieve of peacefulness. He can’t shake the feeling that they’re standing at the brink of an abyss, balancing out their fall. He gives up. Sleep’s overrated and he needs to piss anyway. Given the time, it’s Kaidan’s watch; sure enough, as he stands in the doorway, he sees movement a little further out and the little red dot of a cigarette in the night. He stretches again; his back is never too happy to be acquainted with a floor. He starts as he notices Shepard, crouched, back to the wall, elbows on her knees. “You should be sleeping,” he says.

“So should you.” It is presumptuous to tell her what to do, even though his intentions are good. Being inside of her – several times, his idiot brain supplies – doesn’t give him any right to act like he has any authority. He deserves her rebuff. The last thing he wants is to be a condescending ass. He tries to pacify her. “Sorry, I was just surprised.” He gestures to his head. “Brain didn’t get the memo. I’ve spent so long going after Saren on my own, I still can’t believe I’m out here, with an actual team.” When she doesn’t say anything, Garrus decides to push again, gentler this time. “What about you, what’s keeping you up?”

“This mission. Getting the truth. Death. We’re surrounded by so much death.”

Well, he didn’t expect that. Or at least, not that last part. She’s not looking at him so he doesn’t know how serious she is right now. It feels wrong not to prod. “Okay. Elaborate?”

“People die here. At frightening scale. All over the country, in shootings, or bombings. If they don’t, if by some miracle they have a way out, they die attempting to cross the sea into Europe. And now they die in the camps we promised were safe, while their homes are razed to the ground. We promised them shelter, decency, and yet death has followed them there. When do we say enough? I want it to stop. No - I want to stop it.”

She’s passionate, Garrus thinks. Not about the war, although she would not shy away from a good fight. She cares – about her squad, about Anderson, about people in general. He’s suspected it already, but her confession confirms it. It’s important. People are the first casualty in any conflict; civilians, soldiers, personnel, they quick become a tally on one’s report and by the time actions are taken, that tally racks up thousands. There’s outrage of course, but then the next breaking news hits and it’s usually another catastrophe and more lives are lost till you’re too late to make any meaningful change. And when you’ve become immune to losing people, you start losing parts of yourself. It’s good to see someone more optimistic than him though. Someone who hasn’t lost sight of their humanity.

“We will.” He leans and squeezes her shoulder briefly. She shivers a little under his fingers. No wonder, he thinks, it gets pretty cold after dark. He's learned his lesson though; she can look after herself. “Good night,” he says and slips back inside and into his sleeping bag with practiced ease.

***

Jane goes back inside eventually, although the deep-set cold in her is not easily banished, not even once she’s inside the sleeping bag. Apart from a couple of soft snores from Jeff, everyone is tucked in and quiet. Out of courtesy, she tries to keep still. She wonders if Vakarian’s managing better or whether he’s just better at hiding his demons. Everyone here has plenty. At some point, she drifts away. She starts awake, cooling sweat along her spine and cold back in her bones.

Outside, voices carry in the near distance; there’s no urgency to them, so she’s grateful for the chance to recompose herself. The nightmare’s still here, five sleep cycles later. She should have taken Anderson’s advice and spoken to a psychiatrist on base. She didn’t, because she wouldn’t be here if she’d had. The thought of Anderson makes her cringe; he founded the first trauma risk management program for UN troops, over ten years prior, for god’s sake. She’d even volunteered at events encouraging soldiers to go for counselling. if anyone in her squad pulled this crap, she’d be spitting bullets. This nightmare though…

Jane’s seen corpses. Too many to count. Her subconscious doesn’t even try to summon up the gruesome visuals anymore; after Eden Prime, it’s the smell that haunts her, the scent of vomit and shit and urine, the hopelessness of innocent people dying on the ground, less than ten minutes from inhaling VX. That’s what haunts her, that smell that she can nearly taste, coating the back of her throat.

Jeff’s outside when she exits the house. It’s close to ten o’clock and the sun’s already burning. Half buried in the trunk of his Mako, Jeff shuffles crates around; his mumbling is getting more annoyed by the minute. She kicks one of his boots lightly. “Thanks for waking me up, asshole.”

“It wasn’t me,” Jeff defends. “Vakarian was up, volunteered to cover your watch too. Told him you’d be grumpy about it.” He emerges, wiping sweat off his forehead and rearranging his cap. “He said he doesn’t sleep much, doesn’t mind it.”

Damn Vakarian, can't help himself, she thinks. “Where’s everyone?”

“Wrex and Kaidan have gone into Ma’arrat Misrin, about twenty-minutes’ drive. Wrex’s trying to get back on the trail of the data. Ashley’s cleaning up. She got some bad news overnight. Apparently, her father’s in the hospital. Car accident.” In response to Shepard’s raised eyebrows, he adds, “Snoop alerted me.”

Snoop is Jeff’s little comms scanner hack; it does what it says on the tin, it scans and red-flags key words in all emails that hit their inboxes. It’s useful, except when it reads their private messages as well and then, it’s goodbye privacy, hello jokes about bacterial infections. “Look, I spoke to Ashley earlier. Her father’s been stabilised and there’s a good chance he’ll pull through. She’s just worried you’ll think she’s not ready to back into combat.”

Shepard considers it. “Is she?”

“I think she’ll be fine once she talks to the doctors. Her family’s a bit weird; a few of them think prayers and clean air fix even cancer so they’re trying to get him out of the hospital. She’s trying to get on top of it. News is not easy to come by when it’s the middle of the night back home.”

She nods. “Thanks, Jeff. What else?”

“Wrex’s family sorted out breakfast, right through there.”

On cue, Vakarian exits a small house, off to side, an apple in hand, towering over a bunch of kids trailing him. He’s wearing his usual all-black, tshirt, jeans and well-worn boots. Uniforms are optional in the squad, although she’s partial to the utility of army trousers.

“What’s he doing,” she asks, not sure when has their new team mate become so popular.

“What?” Jeff turns around to watch. “Ah, he’s shown them a drone. A camera one,” he clarifies. “They’ve got it circling up somewhere and it sends images on his phone. Don't give him a hard time about it. I don’t think he’s set it up for fun; he’s worried Wrex’s family will be in trouble for helping us. This,” he circles a hand pointing at the air above, “gives them some surveillance, a heads up of sorts.”

Thoughtful of him. Jane smiles towards Vakarian even though she knows Jeff’s looking at her. She gives him a shove and moves off to find some food for herself, praying there’s hot coffee not too far.

It’s near midday when Wrex and Kaidan return. She’s watching the Mako approach; Vakarian comes to stand next to her, as eager for news as she is. “You shouldn’t have let me oversleep,” she says. She means to put more authority into it, but after their talk, a good breakfast, some lukewarm coffee and a quick chat with Ashley, she’s not in the mood to pull rank on him. His height lending her shade, Vakarian grins. She hasn’t seen that smile since that bar and hotel room in Tripoli, since they raided the minibar for vodka and stale peanuts, fuelling up for their next fuck. The memory leaves a nice buzz behind, which she’s not keen to pursue for the time being.

“It’s okay,” he says and gives her another one of his elbow nudges. “Return the favour when you can and we’re even.”

They wait for Wrex and Kaidan to exit the Mako. They have news, and none of it is good.

***

“Everyone clear?” Nods all around; night vision goggles are on, faceguards pulled up. Vakarian turns; like a ghost, he rounds the corner of the building. The bars of a window, a couple of cracks in the wall to help the traction and he’s scaled it to the top, sleek and agile. The roof terrace gives access to the first floor of the bar, where the offices are. One of Wrex’s many relatives supplied the floor plans. There’s no basement; the bar and a couple of supply rooms occupy the ground floor. That means their asset, the informant they’re looking for is most likely held upstairs also. Vakarian will handle the extraction, but Jane and the crew have to secure a way out. Ashley and Jeff are on standby to pick them up.

They wait for his signal. Vakarian’s voice comes through the comms unit shortly after he’s out of sight. “Disabling alarm now. Stand by.” Wrex and Kaidan flank her, level with the wall in the darkness. Then, progress. “Alarm off. One minute to lights out.”

Jane signals Wrex to go first. Kaidan takes the rear. They move through the backyard in seconds, then flatten against the back exit. As soon as little light above the door flicks out, Wrex kicks the door in. Jane takes point and the first shot, the muffled entry of her bullet quickly overtaken by the body that flies backwards into the wall. She moves ahead. Kaidan follows, then swerves right to sweep the store rooms. Wrex close on her heels, Jane advances onto the main floor.

Her scanner picks up movement in front of her. It’s slow; they’ve heard the body hit the wall but not the bullet. Power outages are not uncommon; smartphones are lit so someone’s about to go investigate the breaker soon. She counts seven bodies’ worth of heat, finger-guns Wrex to her three o’clock then takes a left and aims. Jane hits two thugs in quick succession; she counts another two dropping down behind her, thanks to Wrex’s sweet shotgun.

Chaos explodes around them; tables flip, chairs clatter and break. And now the guns are really out. Jane rolls and ducks behind the bar, another bullet leaving her rifle to pass right through the bartender’s temple. This one’s close; blood splatters over the side of her visor, narrowly misses the few inches of skin left bare by the lower face guard she wears in combat. Five down, she counts again. Somewhere in the room, Wrex gets another shot in; one more body hits the floor. She raises herself minutely above the counter; Kaidan beats her to the action, headshot finding the last thug, sending him sprawling on his back. “Clear,” he calls out.

Jane leaves Wrex and Kaidan to check for any signs of life. She heads towards the stairs when her comms flickers alive and Vakarian’s voice is in her ear. “Coming down. Asset in hold. Get the vehicles.”

She’s already given Ashley and Jeff green light for pick up, when the sound of tires screeches outside. By the front door, Wrex curses in Kurdish then switches to English. “One of these fuckers called for back-up. Two truck-loads outside.” There’s shouting and the sound of feet hitting the ground.

“We have to move quick,” Vakarian says. There’s a slight figure behind him, full hood pulled over head and handcuffed. “If they surround us and move in, they’ll pick us apart fast.”

Jane nods. “Ashley, Joker, we’re coming through the front in five. Hostiles present. Be ready to get us out of here.”

Wrex does the honours of busting the front door open, but Jane goes out first, picking up her targets. Wrex and Kaidan slink out behind, fanning out to cover more ground. They’re efficient, but bullets fly around freely and Vakarian’s practically left to act as a human shield for their asset. Jane feels the burn of a bullet along a cheekbone, the wheeze of it passing and biting the dirt behind resonating in her ear. A close call she doesn’t have the time to be grateful for, she sprints forward and ducks by the front of the truck.

Headlights reflect into her visor, so she turns swiftly to let a volley of bullets; they mostly hit the building, but it doesn’t matter if she hits or not, as long as Vakarian makes it to the Mako. He’s sharp and fast on her tracks, almost carrying the hooded guy and shoving him face first in the vehicle. She catches a glimpse of Kaidan limping towards the second Mako, Wrex covering him, picking out shooters with scary precision. They’re both in now and Jeff drives off.

She barely has time to blink in relief, that Vakarian’s back right at her side, giving her a window to stand and re-aim. They move backwards in sync, getting a few more shots in. They can’t linger – the shit show they’ve unleashed will be ten times worse in minutes – so both catch a good moment to jump in. Bullets still ring behind them, bouncing off the armoured vehicle, as Ashley follows Jeff, speeding out of Idlib.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback always welcome and appreciated. <3
> 
> A few details about this chapter:
> 
> Marhaba - is hello in Levantine Arabic  
> Fattush - is a salad typical for Middle Eastern countries  
> Kibbeh - oval shaped deep-fried patties, in our case made with lamb minced meat (super delicious!)
> 
> FSA - stands for Free Syrian Army, who is a rebel faction in the Syrian War that openly supports bringing down the Assad government. In my story, they're the closest you can get to the 'good guys' in the conflict.


	4. All Their Lives

11 JUN 16, 1100

 

Anderson’s email includes a question mark and a link to an Al-Jazeera news clip. It plays on the consoles in both Makos, pixelated images breaking up but audio clear throughout. “A shootout broke out in south eastern Idlib shortly before midnight last night. The shooting claimed three dead and six wounded, of which five are in critical condition. Police reveals however that they found an even bigger massacre in the building behind us, a local bolthole known as Chora’s Den. Frequented by locals, gangs and mercenaries alike, Chora’s Den – inside and out – appears to have been, according to sources, the scene of a military operation gone wrong. Our correspondent counted twenty bodies being removed, bringing the total unofficial tally to twenty-three. An investigation by police has started. The UN Security Council has declined to comment.”

“Twenty?” asks Kaidan. Coming from the vehicle in front of them, the question goes unanswered. He knows, Wrex knows, Jane knows exactly how many people they dropped on the bar floor. She turns to look at Vakarian; crammed behind her, he holds her eyes completely nonplussed. There’s a thick coating of dust all over him, a couple of scrapes on his face and a bruise that blooms above his collar; other than that, the man is intact, no major flesh wounds whatsoever. That reminds her of the sharp sting in her shoulder and the bullet wound patched in a rush a few hours ago. She turns back in her seat, half impressed, half scared by his skills and she doesn’t care if he hears her muttering “crazy bastard”.

“Jeff, get me a secure line to Anderson,” she says out loud.

“Shepard,” the captain greets. “Trust I don’t need to identify anyone in the morgue today?”

“No sir, all accounted for.” She points to the back seat and fiddles with the camera to change the focus. “There’s someone here you should meet. Say hello to Tali’Zorah nar Rayya. Officially presumed dead, unofficially wanted by half of the Syrian government army.”

“Delighted, I’m sure.” Anderson’s voice conveys the exact opposite, but at least he looks intrigued.

“Tali here worked for Binary Helix Pharma, until a week ago. If that name sounds familiar, that is indeed the company that operated the medical facilities at Eden Prime. Tali backed up files that detail their research and operations. Sir, we still have a big data cache to go through, but...” Jane redirects the camera back to herself. “Captain, they manufactured VX right there. They had samples and they made more. A lot more. I’m starting to think the incident was not an accident.”

Silence stretched. Over the grainy vid call, Anderson looks even more tired than usual. “You may be onto something, Shepard. Nevertheless, it’s not enough to go in front of the Council, you know that?”

“Yes, I’m aware. You and I always say, start…”

“Somewhere,” the captain finishes for her.

Start somewhere. That’s her motto in life; he taught her that. You wanna hit your target, you gotta start somewhere. “There’s more, sir. Not enough, I know, but worth investigating at least. Saren met someone at Eden Prime, before the attack. Looked governmental business, maybe Turkish, Tali thinks. We may find out more from camp or facility visitor logs. Can you get us access?”

“I’ll have these transferred to you asap. What else do you need?”

“We need to get Tali someplace safe. The field duty station in Damascus is too far from our position. Entire south flank is looking for us. We’re heading for the border. It’ll be tricky but I think we can make it. Is Adana an option?”

Anderson taps the keyboard on his desk, then gives her a nod. “I’ll make sure they expect you. Shepard, be careful.”

Adana is at least three-days drive away, if they make it past the border. Once they clear Iskenderun, the road should be clear, security ensured by both Turkish and UN troops. She gives Anderson a two-fingered salute and terminates the call. “Jeff,” she calls out again, “find us a place to stop. I need to patch my shoulder properly.”

 

***

11 JUN 16, 0300

 

Hours out of Idlib, they stopped to assess status. No one tailed them so far. A bullet to the leg for Kaidan, clean entry and exit through muscle, a few inches under his knee. Her shoulder. Some scratches on Wrex. Vakarian seemed fine too, getting their asset out of the Mako. She ignored her own and got Jeff to dress Alenko’s wound while she took stock of their new passenger. Or hostage, depending on how the conversation went.

Vakarian reacted quicker, hiding surprise when face to face with a slightly terrified young woman, headscarf left askew when the hood came off. “Are you hurt,” Jane questioned, cutting the ties holding her wrists together.

“I’m fine. Who the hell are you?”

Whatever she’d been through, she was a tough one, Jane thought. “Commander Shepard, with UN Security Council peacekeepers in Syria. Excuse the mouthful. This is Garrus Vakarian.” He lifted a shoulder in acknowledgement. “We’re investigating an attack on a refugee camp in Turkey, not far away from here. Know anything about it?”

The woman glared at them, rubbing her skin where the plastic had dug into it.

“She does,” Vakarian replied when she remained quiet. He held her arm gently while scanning her thumbprint, then her right eye. “Biometric data corresponds to UN files for a civilian named Tali’Zorah nar Rayya, born in Beirut, Lebanon, working for Binary Helix. Clearance level five. Latest known location Eden Prime. Current status missing, presumed dead, as of June 4.”

“I’m not dead though, am I?” The woman – Tali – sighed. “I’ve been set up. I’ve been trying to reach the rebel army, arranged a meeting in Idlib. Instead of my contact, a stranger showed up. I got abducted instead.”

“Why were you trying to get to the FSA?”

“I had… information for them, on a USB stick. The asshole in charge of the gang that kidnapped me knew zero about encryption, so they kept me alive for a little longer. They took the USB from me though.”

Jane exchanged a look with Vakarian. He nodded in return. The claw squeezing her heart eased up minutely. Her questioning took another direction. “How did you escape the camp?”

Reaching up to straighten her headscarf, Tali shook her head. “I wasn’t on shift when the attack happened. The gas never reached our barracks; I didn’t know what happened, the alarms buzzed and we just knew we were under attack. There’s a terminal in the staff quarters. I made a copy of the files, thinking I’d back up our research in case the whole facility was bombed. It was crazy; thousands of refugees stampeding towards the fences, children cried. A lot of screaming, panic. Stalls were run down, shacks flattened in seconds. Elderly people got trampled, security overrun.”

The calm words couldn’t hide the distress of those moments. It resonated with Jane’s own recollection of the aftermath she’d discovered a day later.

Tali carried on. “I knew I should have run already, but hesitated. Something weird happened. A guy exited the lab. Weird because he had a full biohazard suit on. We never needed the suits before, in my whole year there.” She stopped fiddling with her scarf and looked Jane dead in the eyes. “There were people at the lab, many; inoculations were scheduled that day.” She let the implication hang in the air.

“That’s when a friend found me, told me to get out, get as far away as possible. I trusted him so I ran. Made it to a nearby village, together with a bunch of others, most of them refugees. Camp security found us. They started rounding everyone. At first, I thought about going back with them. Then one of the women - she spoke Turkish - overheard them talk about decontamination. In English, they told us there were no victims, insisted it was safe to go back. What we had in the lab, what they unleashed...” She stopped, rolled her shoulders back and shook her arms, getting rid of more kinks. Her eyes no longer held Shepard’s. “I slipped away and kept running. I found out more about it from the news while I still had battery on my cell phone; they couldn’t brush it under the carpet, the attack was all over the news. I got into Syria by foot, then exchanged my watch for a bicycle and food. Made it to Idlib, where friends managed to send me some money. All the time, that USB stick burning a hole in my pocket. And then, I wasted it.”

Her story could be verified, at least some of it; no doubt Vakarian’d already started a background check. A detail claimed Jane’s attention. “When you say ‘they’, Tali, who are you talking about?”

“Binary Helix, my employer. Those troops rounding us up, right after? They’re all private security, paid by the company, not just for the lab, but for the whole camp. UN outsources this shit. You don’t know about this?”

That moment she’d remember clearly. Vakarian headed back to the Mako, fingers typing on his tablet in heavy, angry strokes. She watched him go, realisation clear in the stiffness of his backbone and the clench of her jaw. They’d stumbled onto something far bigger than either of them suspected, way over their clearance or authority. Before she went back to the mission, one final detail pestered her, a question burrowed into her mind. “That friend of yours, the one who told you to go. What was his name?”

“Nihlus. Nihlus Kryik.”

 

***

11 JUN 16, 1300

 

They hurried onwards after that, putting more klicks between them and Chora’s Den. When they stop again, after briefing Anderson, it’s finally her turn to get stitched. Her shoulder hurts, edges of the wound burning until Jeff cleans it, staples it shut and rubs analgesic gel on it. It’s worth it. They have Tali. Now they just need to keep her alive. They are lucky, they got away light. Maybe too lucky, she thinks. And she’s a coward; she’s not found the courage to tell Tali about Nihlus’ death. She wishes she can go back and take back her question altogether. The fact she hasn’t dealt with her friend’s passing is no excuse either. There will be time later, to explain, she hopes; the dead don’t go anywhere anyway.

There’s a new message from Anderson waiting for her. A sliver of good news she’s more than happy to share. Jane calls out to Ashley, “Incoming. Check your emails.” She doesn’t wait for a reaction, but cracks a smile when Ashley shouts her enthusiastic thanks. The Employee Assistance program offered by the UN came through and dedicated care is being dispatched to the hospital in Fulton, Missouri, where Ashley’s father is being treated.

Jane finds Vakarian reading, multiple tabs crowding the screen of the tablet in front of him. “You have the stick, right?” She needs a tangible focus, needs to confirm that they have at least a lead to go on.

“I do, decrypting now. It’ll be a couple of hours before I get through the security. We can leave any time, all this I can do on the go.” His eyes are on her, usual intensity cranked up a notch. She can’t look at him; it’s weird because others here, Kaidan, certainly Jeff, are more aware how close she was to Nihlus. Yet none of them look at her with that upfront scrutiny that strips all of her pretences away. She briefly considers how deadly he must be in an interrogation. Mercifully, he leaves it alone. “I have Tali’s employee files ready; no known association with anyone in the Council, permanent or non-permanent members. Background mostly academic, graduated Anglia Ruskin University in Cambridge, hired by Binary Helix in London. Transferred to Eden Prime thirteen months ago. I already tracked the money transfer she mentioned, came from Beirut, from a family friend. So far, all checks out.”

“Make sure everything does; we need to know if we can trust her. You wanna split the work? Need something to keep me busy.” Two birds, one stone. She might as well be productive.

“Captain Anderson sent us the visitor logs from Eden Prime; I’m sending them to your inbox if you want to crack on.”

They’re ready to go soon. Ashley jumps behind the wheel of what they dubbed Mako 1. At least she looks more cheerful, some weight lifted off her shoulders. Jane’s happy to ride shotgun, downloading the logs Anderson sent. Behind them, Wrex grumbles about catching up on sleep.

Jeff takes the lead on navigation, syncing their maps from Mako 2. The terrain is tricky to navigate, away from main roads as much as possible. Going far off road isn’t simple either. Tribes criss-cross this section of the mountains; years of civil war have left all of them armed to the teeth. They’re likely to shoot first and ask no questions later. Closer to the border, smugglers prowl. With a person of interest for the Syrian government in their custody, there are more targets on their backs than on a turkey on Thanksgiving.

For hours, it’s quiet. The landscape doesn't change much; an unforgiving rocky dessert around, and mountains ahead, where the border is. They steer clear of villages and don’t run into any trouble. Jane opens a private channel on their instant messenger to talk to Vakarian. Little conversation actually happens, but it’s good to bounce thoughts off each other once in a while. Anderson’s been a sounding board before, but never on a mission. It’s a comfort she didn’t know she’d want. Daylight gives way to night.

“Vehicles approaching at our six.”

Jane whips her head up, away from the report she's reading. Jeff’s right; the radar has picked up heat signatures. Four vehicles are heading straight towards them. “What do you think? Friendlies?”

“They’re speeding. I’d say they want to catch up.”

“Okay, let’s see if we can lose them. How long to the border?”

“Another hundred klicks,” says Wrex. “There’ll be more people as we get closer. Either we lose them before then or risk attracting even more attention.”

“They’re shooting at us,” calls Jeff.

“Shoot back,” she says, motioning Ashley to swap places. Williams stands and takes over the upper gun, locking controls, then aiming. She returns fire, a constant click click as ammunition slots in place and shoots off. Busy driving, Jane can’t tell if they’re successful at all; all four vehicles remain in pursuit.

“Bring your Mako parallel,” she radios Jeff. “Line formation.”

Mako 2 accelerates, then Jeff’s driving at their left, matching her speed. It’s not much but at least they can only be attacked from one lateral and they’ve doubled the fire power they can direct at their assailants. Ashley’s an effective shot and finally one of the trucks blows a tire and veers off into a ditch.

“Who’s your gunner,” Jane calls.

“Vakarian and Alenko flipped for it. Vakarian won.”

A second truck stumbles, the lick of flames from engines shot down bursting through the metal. The driver loses control and knicks a third truck, locking wheels, arrowing together until a second explosion brings both at a standstill. Whoops go off from both Ashley and Vakarian and Jane laughs too. They make a good team.

No time to slack. Lights materialise out of the darkness at her three o’clock. Two motorcycles evaded the radar, too light to pick up. One rides along them, the other drops behind. She swerves right, but the motorcycle slows and evades her manoeuvre. She keeps an eye on it, while she scans for any damage they might have sustained. Fuel’s intact; the other Mako too. Lights have been shot off, so other than front headlights, they’re running blind. When she checks the landscape scanner though, she curses loudly. “Fuck, fuck. Landmines ahead,” she shouts. “Pull back, Jeff, do you hear me?” She jams the breaks, tries to slow down. With a forceful push of the pedal, she pulls the steering wheel as far right as possible, finally changing direction.

The motorcycle’s back; she sees the rider lob a grenade. It lands close to their vehicle; it doesn’t hit them, but it forces her to course correct again. She falls behind Mako 2. “Where’s the truck? Anyone have eyes on the truck?” No answer comes. Another grenade lands, also close. Fuck, they’re being goaded into the minefield.

“Wrex, take point on navigation. Make sure Jeff doesn’t drive into that death trap. Tali is our priority.”

“Shepard,” Wrex calls. “Not getting through to them. I think these assholes are scrambling our comms.”

In front of them, Mako 2 wobbles as flames envelop its left side. They’ve been hit by explosives. “Shepard, I’ve got a visual on the truck. Approaching at our three. It’s going for Mako 2.”

She spares a two-second look to her right before she viciously slams the acceleration. They have to protect Tali. Five hundred yards till they’re back in line formation and they can shield Jeff. Kaidan too. Final push on acceleration, she steadies her hands on the wheel. Three hundred. “Hang on, fuck, just hang on, okay.” She pulls Ashley down, gets her to buckle up. Two. She sees Vakarian’s gun still going after the motorcycles. They haven’t seen the truck, they don’t know they’re on a crash course. Vakarian might be good, but there’s no way he can make it, not while he’s standing in the vehicle. One hundred. Just a little more. They reach Mako 2 just as the truck speeds right at them.

It slams into theirs instead. The impact is jarring; she feels it in every joint, rattling through her. Her head is knocked back, then front. It’s like flying, if you were to do it in a blender on pulse mode. She hits the wheel with a whoop, then jerks left, as the truck continues to propel them, the anguished scream of metal sliding on metal overtaking it all.

“You’re okay.” Jeff’s there when she startles awake. With frantic eyes, she registers a ramshackle hut around them. It looks like shelter. It’s dark and she’s cold. Alive though. She sees her squad mates but doesn’t exactly see them either. She shoots upright, dizziness not enough a deterrent faced with her terror of her unconscious state. There’s a door that’s barely closed. She pushes through, the need for air unbearable. Her fingers, bloody and mangled, claw at the frame, struggling to keep her standing. She’s a step closer, nearly there, almost free of walls.

Two breaths she manages outside before she sees Garrus. He's fixing the lights on Mako 2; she has no idea what happened to the other. She idly think whether they can all fit in one vehicle.

Fear; she knows it when she sees it on Vakarian’s face. Relief also. That she feels too, now that she’s been distracted from her panic attack. She waves off his gesture of help. It’s not her smartest idea. Instead of managing a couple more steps, she near collapses to the ground, knees shaking. Garrus catches her, sliding down so they sit backed up against the armoured truck. Fucking nightmare. Breath heaving, she doesn’t realise that she’s leaning on him, head against his arm. They’re both quiet. Who’s the crazy one now, she wants to ask, but her senses are still full of the stench of death she dreams of and she worries that if she opens her mouth, it will all spill out.

Garrus frees his arm then pulls her to his chest, hugging her sideways, tight. No need for words. Propped by his solid frame, her breathing evens gradually, the acrid smell of her dream replaced by the tangy sweat clinging to his tshirt, a whiff of gun residue and stale coffee. It’s soothing and the best smell she’s inhaled in what feels like years. Jane stays like that, aches in her bones, scrapes on her face stinging where she presses into Garrus. She thinks she can feel the lightest touch of his lips to her hair; if it’s just a figment of her adrenaline-hyped brain, she’d rather pretend it’s real than find out otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a slight change to signpost timeline better on this chapter, date and time military style. Hope it reads clearly. 
> 
> Feedback, comments, questions are always welcome and much appreciated. Hope you enjoy the update!


	5. No Chance For Fate

12 JUN 15, 0500

 

Sunrise finds Jane sleeping propped on his shoulder. Her slumber is a long sequence of fits and starts, a REM rhythm behind her eyelids he’s observed for a couple of hours. The nightmare’s still there, buried just under the surface by exhaustion and a couple of painkillers. Around them, the camp is quiet. No one looks like they got much rest, but they’re grateful for a brief respite. Jeff passes around some coffee and protein bars. Ashley laughs silently at a joke that Kaidan shares while he’s brushing his teeth. It almost looks like they’re on a camping trip, except no one brought any beer or burgers and their injuries are bigger than mosquito bites.

Garrus removes himself from Shepard’s side, slowly lays her down, careful to tuck a backpack under her head. He stretches, then shakes the numbness in his legs, taking stock of their status. They have enough supplies to last them for the next week, but with two extra people in the squad, they need to recover Mako 1 to continue their mission. Either that or find some other transport to get across the border.

They set off on foot, keen to avoid the morning sun; Jeff to get the navigation controls working, Wrex in case they encounter locals. Garrus hopes between the three of them, they can figure out the mechanical repairs. The rest remain in the makeshift camp, Alenko patrolling a tight perimeter, while Jane and Ashley recover. Garrus doesn’t mention it to the others, but he’s given Tali a semi-automatic. She’s had training as part of her deployment at Eden Prime; they might as well use it.

The tracker on Mako 1 puts it at three klicks southwest of their current location. They walk briskly, none yet in the mood for conversation. Garrus sends a drone ahead; the vehicle appears to have escaped looting, at least for now. Whether any of it is salvageable remains to be seen. They get to work as soon as they reach it. Last night, they dealt with the vehicles that ambushed them, stripped them of fuel to avoid a fire that would signal their presence for miles. They left the corpses there, under a dusty canvas. Jackals have already been at them. Wrex chases them off, straightens the canvas back. Soon, the dry heat will accelerate decomposition, but stench is not an issue yet.

Mako 1 lies sideways in the spray of broken glass they left it in, a carcass baking in the sun; after colliding with the truck, they smashed the windshield to get Jane and Ashley out. Strapped in the backseat, Wrex escaped most of the impact. The three of them manage to pitch it back on its wheels. A pile of mangled metal is all that remains of the driver-side door, so they remove it altogether. The rest of their drive – if they get the car working – will give a whole new meaning to air conditioning for its passengers. The chassis requires realignment, two tires need patching up. The electronic system is completely offline, but that is likely down to the dead battery under the hood. Garrus leaves Jeff to change it and bring the navigation system back. Vehicle jacked up, he slides under to try to smooth the kinks in the chassis.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Vakarian.” Wrex’s voice finds him some time later, as he wipes sweat out his eyes. Garrus doesn’t need to prompt him further; the Syrian carries on in a casual voice. “I’ve known Anderson for years. Haven’t worked with Shepard yet, but heard a lot about her. Through Alliance channels, some other chatter too. Not many women make it through N7. You though, I know nothing about. How is it that you’re suddenly second in command on Shepard’s mission?”

A disembodied snort somewhere above signals Jeff’s interested in the answer also. Garrus considers what to say. He’s never needed to explain himself, his investigations usually solo affairs. He’s never sought the approval of people he’s worked with either, just their collaboration. Shepard’s squad feels different; if C-Sec didn’t exist, he could see himself part of her team. “Info, access, timing and availability,” he says, glad when the axel he’s been hammering finally slots back into place. “Ran into Shepard in Pozzallo. I’d just chased a couple of leads, came up with more questions than answers. Turns out we both have our eyes on the same culprit. Anderson secured sign off on shared mission.” He does not mention that references to Arterius were scrubbed out of all documentation related to the mission lest approvals were not forthcoming; nor does he mention his personal connection to Saren, a detail he’s certain not even Anderson knows. “I was already on Arcturus. It made sense to use C-Sec intel and resources and combine forces.”

“Leads, huh? You’re some kind of secret agent, then?”

“Agent, intelligence operative, plant, glorified hound dog, whatever you want to call it. I haven’t had a job description in years. We don’t exactly hold performance reviews in C-Sec.”

“So, what’s your rank?” Jeff asks.

“There are no ranks in C-Sec,” Garrus corrects. “Clearance levels, authorisation mandates, yes. The higher your clearance, the fewer the barriers. More resources available.”

The high-pitched screech of comms channels coming back to life rings from the cockpit. Jeff whoops and puts on headphones to radio Mako 2 with the news. Garrus tries to make out the conversation; with a light kick of his boot to get him talking, Wrex distracts him though. “You didn’t answer Joker’s question. How far up in C-Sec are you, really?”

A tinge of good-natured ribbing colours Wrex’s voice, consonants rolling deep off his tongue. The insistence is sufficient to make Garrus clam up though. “Fuck if I know,” is all he says. And that’s the honest truth. Confident in his position just weeks ago, Garrus is not sure anymore, not with C-Sec actively blocking his path to a full investigation on Saren.

At least the chassis looks like it can take a few more thousand klicks now, enough to get them past the border, maybe even as far as Adana base. He’s just about to suggest they get started on changing the tires, when the hard slap of a hand on the hood shakes the car above him and calls for his attention. “We’ve got company. Small convoy approaching at our nine o’clock,” Wrex says. “Better get out here.”

Garrus is on his feet quick. He slips his Kevlar on, straps his automatic across his chest. “Call Alenko,” he tells Jeff. “Tell him to activate radar scans, make sure they’re not getting the drop. If anyone, I mean anyone, shows up, they take Tali and head for the border.”

“What do you think?” The crosshairs on his sniper rifle picks up three trucks heading their way in a neat column. Battered, scratched, the vehicles have seen better days. Like, twenty years ago. Two people ride in the cab of the front truck; it’s hard to tell how many behind them.

Next to him, Wrex does his own scoping, binoculars scanning for indication of friend or foe. The convoy speeds towards them; they’ll be here in less than a minute. “Local tribesmen, maybe? Let me do the talking, I’ll barter with them.”

Garrus props his rifle against a tire, at his side. He’d feel better flattened down on top of the Mako, the rifle a smooth extension of his body, aimed the incoming group, but Wrex is right. Their chances for survival increase significantly if they come across less threatening. “Comms open on channel two,” Garrus says, pointing at his in-ear short range monitor. Hard to say how much talking they’ll be able to do, but safer to have the option. He stands in the shadow of the Mako, light on his feet, a pistol hidden in his right hand where it’s pressed against his leg.

The trucks stop about three hundred yards ahead, bathed in a cloud of dust. The metal’s in even worse shape on second inspection, headlights missing, the bloom of gunshot-shattered glass on a couple of windows. Definitely locals; there’s no way these trucks can cover much ground, unlike their assailants the night before. Only a heartbeat later, doors open and people pour out. They’re armed, less fire power than Chora’s, but not insignificant either, moving close enough to count now. Two in the cab of each truck, a few more emerging from the back. Fuck, he thinks, eighteen in total. A couple of boys with them, they look too young for whiskers, not to mention the AKs they hold clumsily. He counts his shots carefully; he can sink four, maybe five, before they return fire and he has to dodge. The group surveys them back. No guns point at them for now. Garrus thinks he’d gladly pay his year’s salary to figure out who supplies equipment to local tribes here. He knows he won’t like the answer.

A quick nod to Wrex and the older man strides out to meet them, hands up in the universal sign of peace and non-aggression. His white robe billows around his legs; Garrus hopes he’s wearing a vest underneath too, otherwise this is incredibly stupid. Not that the vest would stop a bullet to the head. The old man is brave, crazy or both. Wrex keeps his arms up, feet measured. Across the small distance, a tall man, dark beard, brown vest on top of a khaki shirt, waves him forward.

The instinct to lunge for the rifle nearly takes over, the closer Wrex gets. Garrus manages to keep it in check, fingers clenched on the butt of his handgun instead. Still walking slowly, Wrex is totally exposed and while Jeff is in the Mako, the vehicle is no longer bulletproof, with its missing window and side door. He can’t jeopardise them, no matter how much his gut screams that he should shoot their way out of this one. Garrus remains standing, ready, but not quite confident they can all pull through if this encounter goes sideways.

“ _Ahlan sadiqi_. Hello my friend.” Wrex calls out his greeting, loud, looking back towards the Mako and grinning warmly, approaching the intruders slowly. Whatever shape they’re in when this incident is over very much depends on his blagging now. As soon as he’s in their midst, a chorus of voices swallows Wrex up.

Garrus listens intently, conversation clearer when only one or two people talk. Wrex shows his standard-issue UN peacekeeping lanyard and badge, explains their vehicle has broken down. At the mention of UN, two men push forward, gesture widely, animated. Not threatening though. It’s hard to understand the dialect, but Garrus’ monitor picks up a few familiar words - _family_ , _nephew_ , _Turkey_. The others listen, crowded around Wrex. Hands gesture to their nine o’clock. The bearded man he assumes is the leader is the only one still watching the two of them. “Jeff, how are the others doing?”

“No sign of gate crashers. They’re ready to move on a few seconds notice. Ashley pinged back coordinates for a route in case we’re separated. Forwarding to you and Wrex now.”

“Thanks.” He speaks under his breath, eyes not moving from the vigorous debate taking place by the convoy. Inside the Mako, Jeff shrugs off the proceedings and resumes work to bring the dashboard back to life. Garrus doesn’t move. There is something off about the situation. Tension coils in his shoulders and scenario after scenario races through his head, each worse than the others. In none of them do all three of them escape unscathed if even just one of those guns goes off. Without the scope of the rifle in front of his eye, he feels naked. Bold talking appears to get people to listen to Wrex. For his part, Wrex’s doing a great job; he speaks with his whole body, turning to face each man around him, hands as expressive as his eyes, clasping shoulders… reassuring? A lot of nodding ensues, voices more subdued. With a small bow of acknowledgement towards the leader, Wrex makes his way back to the Mako.

“What do they want?” Garrus inquires.

“Our help,” says Wrex. For a blink of an eye, he looks much older. Gone is the eloquence he used just minutes ago. He grabs a bottle of water from the front seat of the Mako, drains half of it. “They’re part of the Al Uqaydat tribe, Iraqis that have settled across north and east Syria,” he explains. “Children went missing yesterday. Two girls and a boy. They think traffickers got them and are trying to smuggle them into Turkey.”

A minority in Syria, Iraqis don’t have an easy life. No minority ever does in this unforgiving land. The Assad government fears their family ties, tribal bonds and sympathies with opposition fighters all over Syria, especially the FSA. It helps explain their weapons; nowhere else is the border more porous than between Syria and Iraq. Weapons buoy the armed resistance and in turn, help Assad justify his crackdown on dissenters. It also means any kind of abuse will go un-investigated by local authorities. If any police are left.

Understanding passes between them, confirms Garrus’ assumptions so far. “They need eyes, surveillance, to track the traffickers before they cross into Turkey. Their village is poor, some cattle and a few crafts sustain them. Some of the men travel as far as Aleppo for work. They need help. We have the technology, they don’t.”

“Someone has money for guns though,” Garrus points out. He regrets the words as soon as they’re out. His throat is dry, not because he’s thirsty, but because he can nearly taste what’s coming, and it might be a price too high to pay. They’re already on shaky ground since Idlib; this is a detour that will not simplify anything. _Au contraire_.

Wrex levels him, eyes stern and sombre. “People don’t live out here without bullets. You hunt or you’re hunted. There’s no grey area here.”

Ain’t that the fucking truth. Garrus looks beyond his shoulder to the group of men. A couple have climbed back into the truck, but most loiter, waiting for a word from them. “Who’s that guy?”

Wrex knows exactly who he’s talking about, doesn’t need to turn around to check. “The boy’s father. A bit of a tribe chief, if you will. They offer passage through the mountains, away from patrols, in exchange for our help.”

Garrus suspects he already knows the answer, so his next words come out as a statement, rather than question. “You already told them we’ll help.”

“They’re my people, I have to try to help them.” Wrex is unrepentant.

His people. Garrus thinks of his own home, or rather his family. Solana in particular. How disappointed she’d be if he has a chance to help but doesn’t. “Okay,” he says. “We track the smugglers, find out where the children are. If we find them, we draw a plan to extract. If not, we walk away. Either way, they help us get out of Syria.”

“I’m sure Akram will be amenable.”

Akram means most generous in Arabic. The irony doesn’t escape Garrus. “Good. I want details - age, descriptions, clothes, when were they taken. And everything they know about the traffickers in the area, associates among locals, sources. They can’t be strangers to what goes on here, someone always knows something.” Before Wrex moves back to deliver the news, Garrus stops him. “No mention of the others though. We recon, see what we can do. We rendezvous with Shepard after we finish. Akram, his tribe, gang, whatever, as far as they’re concerned, it’s just us three.” Wrex nods, water bottle to mouth. “And tell him to send a couple of people over, patching these tires will go a lot quicker with some extra hands.”

While Wrex walks back to the group, Garrus meets Jeff’s eyes, shakes his head to shut down his questions. Throat still tight with worry, he flips out his phone to call Jane.

 

12 JUN 16, 2330

 

Twelve hours later, sniper rifle locked on target, Garrus finally feels in his element. With Jeff’s help and a little bit of hacking into MASINT satellite operated by the US Department of Defence, he tracks down the traffickers before midday. They spend about six hours catching up; even busted, Mako 1 runs well. They get lucky; they’re ten klicks away from the border, just past El Tloul, when the tracker he’s got trained on two Jeeps signals that they’ve stopped.

Jeff stays behind, getaway driver on standby with the Mako. Together with Akram, Wrex and Garrus approach on foot. The rest of Akram’s men have been sent back to the village; they need a scalpel precision, not a sledgehammer hit. The terrain helps; the dessert morphed into steppe hours ago. Dunes gave way to small, rocky hills. Small pines, shrubs, the odd olive tree confirm they’re close to the coastal mountain range that divides western Syria from Turkey.

Garrus finds an overwatch, sets up his long range. Without more time to scope out an ideal position, he relies on proximity to ensure the accuracy of his shots. A flat-fire scenario, calibrated quickly for atmospheric conditions and elevation, takes under thirty seconds to calculate. He selects ammunition – custom high-pressure cartridges - and the rifle is locked and loaded. He waits, both spotter and shooter tonight.

A mile ahead, Wrex and Akram sneak up on the two vehicles. Inside, eight children huddle, including Akram's son. Jeff’s satellite tracker and Garrus’ heat signature scanner indicate five traffickers. One’s slumped behind the wheel, possibly asleep. Two stand in front of the cars, guns slung across their chest, the other two at the back.

“Jeff, widen the surveillance range. See if you can pick up more than three klicks at a time.” They didn’t get lucky after all. The smugglers meant to stop, and now they’re guarding their charges. Waiting. Too late to back down.

“Wrex,” he calls out. The Syrian should still be in range of the monitor. “Expect fight back, possible return fire. Raise a hand if you hear me.”

Through the scope of the rifle, he sees Wrex’s signal. Good. “I have a clear shot at two of them. I’ll need to relocate before I can scope and drop the other two. If we sync up right, one of you can take out the driver, while the other supplies cover. That gives me enough time to adjust position. Do you copy?”

Wrex’s hand goes up again. “Okay. Stand down, wait for my call. Jeff, how are you doing with that perimeter?”

“Still working on it. There a second protocol in place to capture more ground, trying to bypass it. I’m gonna need a few more minutes for this.”

Except now that Wrex is in position, every minute they waste risks his safety. “Keep working on it. When you’re done, sweep for heat sigs. I want to know if there’s anyone else here. Ping results to me.” Garrus allows himself a few deep breaths, chest neatly aligned along the barrel of the rifle, buttpad below his shoulder. He flattens his cheek against the piece, blinks a couple of times, then gazes through the objective.

“On my three. One.” The suppressor will muffle the firing noise, but not the impact. There’s a window of a few seconds to take two shots, or they’re screwed.

“Two.” He sights, flexes the finger on the trigger, shoots once, adjusts his elbow before the first guard even hits the ground, then takes the second shot.

“Three.”

On his feet, he sprints fifty yards, west of his original position. He drops to his belly just as another shot rings in the dusk. Through the scope, he reads the situation. Fuck. They’ve taken down the driver but alerted the other two guards in the process. Movement registers in one of the cars and several children exit. Shouting rings out; more exit now from the second car. Some stay rooted on the spot, in shock; others make a run for it. With Wrex and Akram engaged in hand to hand combat and with only body heat scanner to go by, he can’t take the next shot. “Hang in, coming,” he says, hoping his monitor delivers the message to Wrex. “Jeff, alert Shepard.”

Half way to his feet, he’s bounced up by a heavy boot to his abdomen. One kick slams into his lower belly, then a second aims higher, catching him squarely in the chest as he tries to twist sideways and dodge. Another kick, from behind, this time to his lower back. He spots the butt of the gun heading for his face, barely has time to lift a hand to block it, before he feels the hit, zygomatic and nasal bones crunching under the impact. The gun lifts, then hits again and a wave of pain drags him into unconsciousness.


	6. Last Chance to Lose Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few deaths, a lot of swearing and a rescue of sorts.

13 JUN 16, 0057

 

He’s lying on his side, head bouncing against the floor of a vehicle, off-road driving. Open sky is above him. A high-pitched screech rings in his ear. His mouth is full of blood; it drips on the planks beneath him, pooling into a crimson stain that he can just about see with the corner of his eye. Garrus fucking Vakarian got jumped like a greenhorn cadet.

His hands are fisted together, heavy duty zip tie around them. His ankles the same. They took his boots; he half-snorts at the thought that the assholes must have watched the kid on Buzzfeed removing zip ties with her shoe laces. Pain shoots sharply through his face when he tries to get a feel for his injuries; nose's definitely taken a hit, the side of his face throbs from jaw to hairline, even blinking hurts. Alone on the bed of the truck, there’s no telling how long he’s been out of it. Too long, whichever way he looks at it. His monitor’s gone, not to mention all weapons he carried earlier.

Voices carry from somewhere behind him, where the driver is, faint over the hurtling of the truck. Some laughter, then silence, just the road swallowed up in the darkness. Punctuating potholes and rough terrain, the vehicle in front of him, following them, shines headlights in his eyes. When wheels hit tarmac, the headlights remain on long range, fixed on him. Blinded by the beam, Garrus shuffles in a sitting position. The pain has not subsided at all, but breathing is easier now that pressure on his ribs is lighter. He spits to the side, clearing his mouth of traces of blood; a few quick, shallow breaths and he turns over his shoulder for a first good look at what he’s up against.

Two men in the truck he’s carried in. A sleek pick-up in front, another truck to the back, the driving steady, coordinated. They’re no amateurs. If he has to guess, these are the guys they pissed off in Idlib. Either that, or the smugglers he and Wrex tracked are part of a much wider network, well financed and supplied. He models maps in his head, calculating distances from nearby towns, running through intel, and waits.

He smells the acrid tang of sweat, chewed tobacco and abysmal dental hygiene before he feels the muzzle of a gun at his temple. In the minutes that stretched into the night, head leant back to stop his nose bleed, he succumbed to the headache pounding a tattoo in his skull and went numb in a fitful slumber. Now they’re stationary, finally. He squints against the lights pointing at him. A shadow looms at his side and before he can say anything, his ribs protest at the impact of a brutal kick. Arms pulled inwards to brace for the next hit, he smiles through the pain, coughs. “I’m awake, motherfucker.”

A flip phone is pressed to his ear. “Still two steps behind, Garrus. Isn’t it time you give up?”

Anger is good, he reminds himself. Anger pushed him when nothing else worked, in the dark moments when he thought he preferred to be the target of a bullet rather than the finger on the trigger. Anger shut down his insecurity, turned his backbone into steel. Anger is exactly what he feels at the sound of Arterius’ words. Anger is good, but it’s meaningless if he doesn't use it. He spits, blood hitting the merc’s boots, splattering the bottom of his kaftan. “Not until you’re in cuffs, Saren.”

The laugh at the other end, eerily familiar even after many years, sobers him up in a way that not even that kick managed. “There’s still time, you know.”

“Time for what?”

Strong confidence had turned Saren from a good politician into a great orator early in his career. With age, he only got better; certainty dripped off his every word. A lesser man would fall for it, hook like and sinker. “To join me. This war was overdue. A year from now, every western civilisation will skip past news of Middle East, too tired to keep up with the tally, too jaded to pretend to care. I’ll be waiting, ready with a plan for peace. I’ll get the votes in the Council, become Secretary and reshape this region, give the whole world a facelift. A new order will be born, to secure the peace and hold it.”

Gun to his head, a heavy military boot raised and pinning his shoulder back, someone else might have measured his words. “You’re mad, Arterius. UN doesn’t work like that, they’re not gonna just hand you the power and their blessing. Good to see you’re still an arrogant piece of shit, though.”

“Good to see you're still naïve, young Vakarian. We can use that, it’s good PR, although we’ll have to do something about that tongue of yours. Now listen carefully, it’s the last time I ask. For old time’s sake, for Castis, for… Solana, there’s room for someone with your pedigree and experience at my side.”

Anger is good, Garrus thinks again, as he has done so many times before. And like those many other times, he controls it, letting it burn in his throat but not in his voice. Get angry and get even. Arterius will never get the satisfaction of knowing how much hurt and regret the mention of his family summons. He eyes the merc hovering over him and winks. “Get fucked,” he says into the phone.

“No, my friend, but you will.”

When the gun that kisses the skin at his temple pulls back, Garrus does entertain the thought that this is possibly the end of the line. Contrary to popular belief, there’s zero time for life to flash before his eyes; aimed sideways, the handgun hits the side of his head and the sweet veil of oblivion descends again.

 

13 JUN 0012

 

Never in her career has Jane thought that no news is good news. Tonight proves no different. Seconds, minutes drag by as she waits for Jeff’s comms channel to come alive. “Jeff, what’s going on?”

“You want the good news or the bad news first?”

“Jeff.” The warning is clear; beyond tired, no one in the Mako is ready for Joker humour. Ashley and Kaidan took turns to nap. Tali spent a long time praying but has otherwise been quiet. Garrus programmed several data searches remotely and results have been filtering through all evening; Jane has been busy reading through them, from Binary Helix financial records to research that Eden Prime labs did into VX. She hasn’t gone back to the visitor logs that Anderson sent yet. She procrastinates because she’s worried; the more time they spend this side of the border, the more time there is for things to go sideways.

“Okay, here’s the good news. We recovered the kids. They’re safe. Akram’s drawn a map for the mountain pass, I’m scanning it to you shortly. Four klicks northeast from your position and you’re in Turkey.”

“And the bad news?”

“We kinda lost Vakarian.”

The sentence wheezes out on fast-forward. At first, Jane thinks it’s a joke. “Lost?”

“We think he was ambushed. He took two kill shots – like, perfect shots, Shepard, straight out of Guinness. He signalled relocation then nothing. No heat sig, no radio signal. Nothing.”

Jeff’s usual cool sarcasm has been replaced by distress. That’s how Jane knows they’ve truly fucked up. She holds out a little hope, ever the optimist. Jeff snuck a data pusher in the lining of Garrus’ boots yesterday as an extra safety precaution. “You have a tracker on him, right?”

“ _Had_. Had a tracker on him. It went dark seven minutes ago.”

“Seven? Jesus fuck, Jeff, he could be dead by now.”

“Look, I know and I’m sorry. Had a bit of a handful surveying the scene and by the time we realised he’d gone quiet, his monitor was already off. Wrex circled back to his last known position but didn’t find anything. He vanished.”

Without Garrus, her mission is as good as compromised. His intel and resources are key to getting to Saren, she still believes it. And he’s been a massive asset to the team so far. They need to figure out what happened to him, just as much as they need to get Tali out of Syria. “Jeff, get Wrex online. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

 

13 JUN 16 0423

 

Whatever happened to waking people with a bucket of ice water to the face, he thinks, jerked out of unconsciousness by the pull of his arms upwards, above his head, shoulder in agonising pain where the humerus slid out of the joint. The pain is bracing and as much of a wake-up call as anything. He’s in a shipping crate, long and narrow, hands and feet still tied together. A couple of hooks have been drilled into the ceiling; there’s a splatter of blood on the ground. Old blood, not his; he’s fairly sure he hasn’t bled here, but that can change any minute. The dawn call to prayer sounds, echoing on buildings around. He can approximate the time now and by the sound effect – voice, not megaphone, a hillside location – he thinks he knows where he’s been taken.

Bonus points - he’s alive. For now, at least, as the merc handling him tries to gather enough momentum to pull his entire height upright. Rope threads around his wrists, on top of the zip ties. Assholes are either afraid of him or have been ordered to keep him secured. Garrus hopes the reality is a bit of both. He has a reputation in the private sector to warrant zip ties and a shitload more. He’ll live up to it soon enough.

The opportunity presents itself fast. The guy handling him is shorter; he did a good job on rope work, but he lacks the strength to lift Garrus up, high enough for his feet to dangle. A well-timed twitch and dropping dead weight on the rope haul the poor fucker closer, while also allowing Garrus to stand awkwardly. His unease ends there. He snaps his arms forward, ignoring the click of his bone pulled back in its socket, listening instead for the pop of plastic around his wrists. Sure enough, as his elbows fan out sideways, the pressure makes the zip ties break open. He uses the rope around his wrists next, a deft pivot looping it around the man’s neck once, then twice. Garrus counts the seconds; two minutes later, the asshole goes down, a surprised look on his face, not a single squeak out of him throughout.

Freeing his ankles is easy; getting out of the rope binds less so, but he manages. A couple of minutes later he contemplates how to bust out of the container when he hears the _Iqama_. Back to the metal, barefoot – he’s okay with scavenging the man’s gun, he draws a line at taking his sandals – he peeks out onto a deserted courtyard. Upstairs, in an alcove, a guard smokes, clearly shunning the ‘purity is half the faith’ _hadith_. The gates are right in front of him; he’s willing to bet there’s guards outside though, and right now, the element of surprise is his biggest advantage.

As the guard stubs his cigarette, Garrus slips out, a shadow in the new dawn, a flash of movement across the yard. He finds the stairs quickly, glides along the wall quietly, crouches at the top. Below them, all is quiet. Without hesitation, Garrus walks behind the sentry, swipes an arm around his neck pulling it backwards as far as he can, then turns it violently to the side. He steps away quickly before the unlucky asshole’s bowels empty, leaving the body to crumble to the ground.

The building branches out at either side of the balcony. He hedges his bets; he needs to make a quick exit before people return from prayers; he also needs a car and a phone. Darting left, he comes across a tidy bedroom, and through it a small office. Two ancient desktops are stacked in a corner; an HP laptop on a desk is shut down. Any of them would take too long to power on, if they actually even work. A quick sweep through drawers yields a simple phone, an early Motorola model. It’s perfect. He dials a local number, which reroutes to his Omega network. A simple code punched in translates into instructions; he waits for thirty seconds, enough for the satellite connected to the network to triangulate his location. By the time Garrus returns the phone in the drawer and moves out, Omega completed transmission and the security protocols have already recycled the calling info so that a repeat caller will never get an answer at the other end again.

 

13 JUN 0454

 

“Motherfucker,” Jane says, showing Wrex the message that just pinged into her inbox. Wrex laughs. Jane wishes she could too. Worry still twists violently in her gut. They’re speeding down a nameless, numberless road, heading for Salquin, nearest town, about fifteen klicks away. She tears into the acceleration, coordinates in the message now locked into the GPS.

 

13 JUN 0512

 

She nearly shot him. Garrus is slumped in the back seat of the Mako. He still hasn’t hustled up any footwear and, as they’re manoeuvring through the tight streets of Salquin, looking to lose a couple of chasers, that’s not his top priority. He’d just finished two sentinels outside the compound, found the garage and tried to jump start a Jeep, moving like a ghost, leaving no traces behind. Shots rang outside though, drew him out. He should have known when he sent the message that Jane would waltz in, guns blazing. He just didn’t expect her to arrive so soon. It took a lot of skill not to find himself in a literal crossfire. For now, he’s content to leave the dangerous driving to her – she has it mastered to an art – and the shooting to Wrex. His mind goes back to his conversation with Saren.

 

13 JUN 0902

 

Turkey. Finally. Even the grass looks greener. Well, not exactly, but everyone’s happy to be out of Syria. Kaidan called earlier, confirming their arrival in Antakya. Mako 2, with Jane still behind the wheel – clearly both Garrus and Wrex have similar death wishes – should meet them there in about two hours.

One leg up on the back seat, eyes trained on moving landscape, Garrus has avoided all non-essential questioning so far. Jane’s left him alone for much of the ride, although interrogation is barely restrained in the looks she gives him in the rear-view mirror. Fair’s fair, although much like her arrival to the rescue, he didn’t think he’d have to disclose certain matters quite so soon. It’s time for a few confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iqama - second call to prayer, issued right before the start of prayers  
> Hadith - record of traditions or sayings belonging to prophet Muhammad, in this case referring to purity as one of the tenets of Muslim faith


	7. Something To Confess To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squad reunited, news, showers and confessions. I promise it's more dramatic than it sounds. See updated tags for mentions.

13 JUN 16 1127

 

Leveraging their UN powers, Kaidan has requisitioned a _Jandarma_ training facility in a residential area of Antakya. Locals stare at the bullet-ridden Mako rolling into town; sand covers some of the damage, but even this close to the border, the sight is an oddity, not as much in itself, but for the story it tells. Children gather around briefly as they drive inside the facility, fascinated by the display of survival. Kaidan and Ashley shut them in quickly, pushing rickety gates closed together and ending the spectacle.

Wrex exits first, fast, instinctually giving them space. Jane checks the mirror; Garrus hasn’t made a move to get out yet. In fact, he’s barely moved since they got out of Salquin. “Wanna talk?” She offers in the most patient voice she can muster.

“No,” he says and finally meets her eyes, the mirror aimed perfectly to catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a would-be smile that he never pulls off. The usual soldier’s mask has given way to weariness. “But we’ve got to.”

“See the doctor first.” Jane points to the medical unit that Kaidan sourced. “We’re staying put tonight. Adana tomorrow.” Maybe; she doesn’t know whether the Makos can go the distance.

With a nod of acknowledgement, he peels off the back seat. She follows, grateful for the room to shake off the numbness in her limbs. She needs new bandages too, but it can wait. She finds Kaidan speaking to a local official; at UN’s request, the small gym is quickly converted into a communal dorm room, foldable beds, pillows, blankets. “I like your style, Alenko,” she says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You’ll like me even more when we get our lunch delivery.” His reply makes her cackle and while she doesn’t deny the thought of food that doesn’t come out of a ration pack makes her giddy, she needs to check in with Anderson first. Jeff’s already converted an office the size of a cupboard in a secure comms room, so she gets an encrypted line straight away. “Hello, sir. We’re in Antakya, four hundred fifty-seven klicks south of Adana. Stopped for medical assistance and repairs. Best case scenario, depending on the state of the vehicles, we leave tomorrow.”

“Roger that, Shepard. What else?”

“We’ll need security enforcements for tonight. Vakarian was abducted yesterday; don’t worry, we got him back. He’ll live.” Expecting questioning, she pauses. The attempted humour is bad, but not that bad. Jeff returns her puzzled look. “With our injuries and Tali to keep safe, we could use a boost.” Local police forces collaborate with UN throughout Europe, supplementing operations, especially in the field.

“Ordering two squads now.”

“Sir, mind telling me what’s going on?” Such brevity is unusual, even for Anderson.

“There’s been another attack. Last night, in Zaatari, south of the Jordanian border. Eden Prime nerve agent confirmed. Details incoming.” The sound of keyboard typing reverberates through the connection. “Find out how they’re related. Find out who did this.”

The report does not make for light reading. One hundred and seven fatalities, and over three hundred affected. Zaatari is one of the largest refugee camps in the Middle East, home to close to one hundred thousand people, though an accurate census hasn’t been done since 2013. It can’t be a coincidence that an attack has been carried out on a camp that allows regular demonstrations that have always focused on the horrors inflicted by al-Assad and the Armed Syrian Forces on the Syrian people. Horror found a way to follow them into their new life. “Keep this between us for now,” she tells Jeff. “I’ll put more details together and debrief everyone in the morning. How are we doing on the Mako repairs?”

 

13 JUN 16 1937

 

The squad enjoys a well-earned dinner; Kaidan delivers on his promise, big time. As much as she wants a hot meal though, she’d rather get rid of the three-day old grime while there’s still hot water left. A small locker room is sandwiched between the gym and the showers. Jane stashes a change of clothes in one of the open lockers, steps out of her boots. The socks get dumped straight into the trash. She’s frugal about many army resources but wasting time on washing socks is not something she’s fond of. At all. Khakis and shirt folded away, she walks into the showers and freezes. She’s not alone. Five showerheads are fitted to the wall, soap dispensers screwed into the tile mid-height. Water pounds the floor. No dividers, no curtains. Absolutely zero privacy.

Plenty of naked man though. Garrus must have been released by the doctor already; last time he saw him getting X-rays, an hour ago. As he hits the button that delivers the intermittent flow of water, Jane quickly averts her eyes. A smidge late, she thinks. The image’s already gif-ed itself in her brain and runs in a loop. His head bows, good arm props against the tile. Wet hair, even darker under the spray, soap suds clinging to his back. Strong, long legs, the kind that held her up against the wall like she weighed noth- …

Stop, she tells herself. There’s more bruises on him that they have fingers to count on in the whole squad and they barely got him back. She can’t let her fantasy run amok. Already half inside the communal shower room, instinct finally kicks in and she turns to go, but not before sparing another look his way. Water has stopped running again. He’s fidgeting now. Flicking water out of his eyes, he’s struggling to untie the muslin bandage that supports his right arm in a rudimentary sling. Before she can stop herself, before overthinking her reaction, she closes the distance between them. “Here, let me help.”

Garrus startles, twists slightly to watch her hands take over and unwrap the figure-eights in the improvised sling. The tension that shot his spine into a ramrod ebbs slowly. She senses him assess the room, years of military conditioning determining his every reaction; the two of them alone, him naked, vulnerable. Her.

“Thanks,” he says. _Thud_. The water starts pouring again, splashing her where she’s close. His voice is nearly drowned by the sound. “I can’t get this off one-handed.”

“I got it,” Jane replies, handling his injured arm with reassuring confidence. “Doctor’s done the reduction, right?”

“Yeah. Fucking lidocaine also helps.”

Jane laughs. Yeah, he’ll live. For now, as her fingers want to linger on his arm, the fine line between appropriate and holy-shit-inappropriate behaviour for a commander is about to be obliterated. Before she embarrasses herself, she waves the loose bandages in her hand and moves toward the door on heavy legs. “I’ll leave these in the locker room for you.”

She doesn’t get to run away. “Jane, come here,” he says, raspy, looking her dead in the eye when she dares glance back. Like pulled by string, she does, she walks back to him. Garrus shuffles aside and she slots in the space he creates, between the tiles and the mass of his body. Water hits. She yelps in surprise; even injured he can move lightning fast. A chuckle erases some of the gloom in his eyes; he crowds her into the wall, shaking water out of his hair, getting her wet, no, _soaked_. She strips, sodden tank top peeled over her head slowly, careful not to disturb her own bandages. Boyshorts follow, dragged over her hips and down her legs, pushed to the floor. She pushes right up to him, not quite touching, but intimate all the same. A beat of silence and thousands of drops of water are shared between them, together with understanding, companionship, maybe more, maybe not tonight, but someday sure. He reaches for a handful of soap and offers it to her. She shakes her head, a light shiver working its way through her. She wants his hands on her, even if the timing is screwed up, even if they haven’t talked about what they are to each other, or what they might become.

In a light caress, he washes her arms, careful around her wound. A lingering touch at her collarbone, a flash of a little smile from him in return. Is he thinking of the last time they were skin on skin together too? More soap, a burst of foam around her breasts, dripping down the muscles in her abdomen. He kneels, strong hand palming her ass, spreading bubbles over her thighs, down her knees, around her ankles. Back up her legs, between them. He watches her body with the same intensity he uses in the field. And although that amount of attention dedicated to her alone is erotic and heady as fuck, his touch is also tender, wistful. It’s more than lust. He noses her belly briefly, tickling, then nudges her around to wet her hair, rubbing her scalp, massaging the cheap soap in, until all traces of caked sand and dirt are washed off. He touches her arm, brushes his thumb along it where she’s folded it against her body. The side of his hand rubs against her breast and she shivers again, hungry to close the inches still between them, his skin whispering to hers. His one-armed embrace lets her know his body is absolutely not indifferent to her either. Her brain goes on overdrive while he holds her, no air left between them now. Before her brain has even finished processing the sensation, he tugs her to the lockers, picking up the wet underwear from the floor. “Come on, we haven’t talked yet.” She follows, hand in his.

They dress in silence, off-duty attire of sweatpants and tshirts. Far from dispersing, the moment they just shared stretches on in the intimate way they fall into comfortable routine around each other, brushing teeth, a quick shave, blow dry.

The makeshift dorm is empty; it looks like dinner isn’t finished yet. Neither of them begrudges the team; moments when no roster is drawn for surveillance, meals, laundry are rare in the squad. Jane drops her laundry at the foot of a bed, claiming the one closest to the exit. She picks up the bandages and forces him to sit down while she secures his arm back in the sling. “Another refugee camp was attacked.”

“I know, I got Anderson’s report too. I’ve put in a request with C-Sec for satellite and local intelligence briefs.” Already high, the stakes are about to hit stratospheric levels. “I spoke to Saren.”

It’s not a joke, she realises. She sits across from him. “When?”

“Sometime last night. After I was taken. One of the assholes put a phone to my ear and there he was, tracking us, ahead of us.”

“Wait, he’s responsible for your abduction? Why?”

“I can think of a few reasons. To get us to back off, to intimidate us. Because he can.” He pinches the bridge of his nose; freshly shaven and paint off, he looks surprisingly easy to read. Or maybe she’s just that attuned to him, her brain offers. Vakarian is not easy to read, to anyone, ever. Except… She braces for his next words. “It would be dishonest of me to hide that at least some of Saren’s interest relates to me specifically.”

Jane lets him continue. Her thoughts race back to the heavily redacted file she dug up on him; this conversation will likely fill in some gaps. How many remains to be seen.

“There’s history between Saren and me. Between Saren and my family, since each of us has been affected in one way or another and none good. Saren was my father’s friend. And once I became a student, he was also my professor. Naively, I thought having a family friend for a lecturer would be great for my academic record. I took him up on invitations for tutoring; and when I grew comfortable around him, he hit on me. I declined, he insisted. Got intense, aggressive. Threatened to fail me if I didn’t sleep with him. I did what any crazy kid who thinks they’ve got it all figured out does; I recorded one of this phone calls, then replayed it for him, told him I’d send it to the dean, to the press.”

“He backed down, then?”

“Hmm. Yes and no.” He goes on, story far from finish. “After the summer break, I transferred for a year to Boston. My mother had just been diagnosed with lymphoma and sought treatment at the Dana-Farber Institute. It made sense for one of us to be close to her. Her health deteriorated in spring and then she was gone, so quick my dad and sister never got to say goodbye in person. The next time I travelled to Paris, I escorted a coffin. Solana, my sister, greeted me at home, our father busy handling funeral arrangements. There was a vibrant glow to her; I chalked it down to our reunion and didn’t pay much attention.

I remember the look on my father’s face, shell-shocked to see his sixteen-year old daughter in his friend’s arms. Still stunned over mother’s passing days earlier, I don’t think he quite processed it until Saren waltzed in next morning, pregnancy scans in his hand. Nothing can erase Solana’s reaction when he told her he’d seduced her, fucked her and gotten her pregnant out of spite. He wanted my recording in exchange for giving up all paternity rights. Barely a lick over twenty, what the fuck did I know. I did as my father decided, put family name first and gave him the tape. His lawyer drew papers waving his rights away in minutes. We spent our mother’s funeral wondering which one was the bigger tragedy, below or above ground.

I went back to the States after, finished studying. Didn’t know much about what I wanted to do next. Joined the marines, then dropped out three years later. Apparently, I have a habit of disobeying orders, something you should be aware of. I did a short stint in the UN Peace Corps, until I got recruited by C-Sec. Something finally stuck.”

He leaves out the ugly parts. How Castis withdrew from public life more and more, a recluse in their house in Montreux a mere few months later. That story’s still out there in the bowels of the internet, a Google search away if she’s curious. Others only he knows. He hasn’t shared with his father or sister and he’s not about to disclose to Jane. How Arterius kept tabs on him, in college, then at UN, his influence never too far. How Saren was the reason he left the Peace Corps, promotion denied at his express request, Arterius a big-name politician with French Prime Minister aspirations. C-Sec became his escape, a private organisation dealing with some of the world’s largest secrets. Until they were contracted by the UN Security Council, where Saren had already been appointed in the permanent council.

“And Solana, what about her baby?”

Ain’t that the biggest kick in the teeth, he thinks. “She miscarried in her eight month. She lives with my father still. She’s okay, mostly, if you ignore the trust issues.” And the depression and anorexia. Which Solana has overcome to a large degree, but these are details too private to share and not his to confess. “Listen, I’m not deluded to assume I’m the reason Saren’s doing this. He always was ambitious and his politics are even more so. He has a bigger agenda and we definitely need to get back onto it because already, more people die. Every day. But I need to be honest here – I’m a particular brand of fun-on-the-side for him. If he gets to accomplish whatever his master plan is and destroy me in the process, he’ll do it and enjoy it. And if you and your team are caught in the fallout, he’s not gonna give a fuck. I’m a liability to you. When I met you in Pozzallo, I didn’t know he still tracked me. I suspected it though, and I should have told you. I apologise. We can part ways in Adana if it helps you complete the mission without this… complication.”

Jane examines him as she mulls over his story. “So, you disobey orders frequently?”

That’s totally not what he expected her to say. A genuine smile lifts his lips. “Only bad ones.”

Jane returns his grin. She feels like several layers of secrecy have been peeled off and yet, there’s no telling how many are left. Entrusted with his family’s skeletons, she is compelled to extend some of that trust in return. Besides, she doesn’t plan on giving him an easy out. “Apology accepted. But you’re not off the hook. You’re right, you’re a liability, but only as long as Saren’s aware of our next move. You know more about him than the rest of us combined. Stay and help me, help us, get ahead of him for once.”

“Okay, I’d like that,” he says. Truth be told, he’s relieved too. Up on his feet, he attempts a couple of deep breaths, but ends up wincing. “Painkiller’s wearing off and I suck at pillow talk. I’ll go check some emails. I have some intel to review.”

“Thanks for earlier,” Jane says, watching him walk away barefoot. “It was nice.”

There’s a faint blush in her cheeks, it matches the colour of her hair. He’s glad he put it there. He turns to her, still walking, now backwards though. “You’re welcome. Figured I’d give you something better to dream of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jandarma - local police enforcement in Turkey  
> Zaatari - is an actual refugee camp in Jordan, one of the top countries in the world to accept refugees. A small tidbit since it's World Refugee Day today. If you can, watch Neil Gaiman's video about his visit to a refugee camp. Thanks.


	8. Hearts Ignite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resources, research and plenty of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't say what kind of action, did I?

14 JUN 2016 0630

 

Nice?! Ten hours later and she still wants to kick herself. That shower was… something else. His embrace tender, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world and more than two walls separating them from the rest of the squad. The touches that left her burning. And she told him it was nice?! The smell of coffee entices her out of the canvas bed and into the common room, before she can dwell on her ineptitude.

Six metal tables have been pushed together in the middle since they arrived; four desktops requisitioned from the local police are now rigged in pairs for extra power. CNN plays on the TV hooked on the wall, the only English-language channel they can expect here. A large bowl of fruit, pots of syrupy, strong Turkish coffee and water were delivered early, courtesy of the Chief _Jandarma_. The hospitality probably means he can’t wait to see them out of his town. She doesn’t blame him.

Bad news for him, they’ll be here at least another day. Jeff hands her a coffee, teeth into a honeyed pastry. “Mechanics expected at 0800. Need to fix suspensions on both vehicles, install a new wind shield and driver door on Mako 1. If we can, that is. If not, I’ll improvise. Patch up metal work on both, so we look more Peace Corps and less Indiana Jones.”

Standing at the front of the room, Jane lets the coffee work its magic and waves everyone around. “Okay. Looks like we’re deploying tomorrow. Drive out at 0600.” Jeff nods, and she carries on. “Listen up, I have news.”

Attention firmly on her, she briefs them on the latest attack. “Jordan’s largest refugee camp, Zaatari, suffered a nerve agent attack during the early hours of June thirteen.” Jeff pulls up a map of Jordan on a monitor and turns it so they can all see. A couple of clicks on the keyboard and screen splits in two, displaying gruesome shots of yesterday’s incident.

“Thanks to Tali, we know the labs at Eden Prime manufactured VX. The agent used at Zaatari was brought in, vaporised on food. People came in contact with it, ingested it, inhaled it. It’s persistent; as we speak, thousands are still under evacuation because this motherfucker does not disperse easily. We need to know where it came from, who transported it, how it got into the camp.

“Kaidan, get the latest from Jordanian intelligence – find out who had access to the camp, deliveries, medical, electrical maintenance, anything else that might give us a lead.”

“Wrex, I want access to your eyes and ears in the community. Tell me you have insiders in Jordan?”

The Syrian nods. “If I don’t, I will. Give me a couple of hours.”

“Thanks,” Jane says. “Next, we need to consider the possibility that attacks will escalate, that Eden Prime and Zaatari are weather balloons from attacks of bigger scale. Certain nerve agents, VX in particular, are suitable for manufacture into larger weaponised systems, from munition to rockets. Think artillery shells, spray tank airplanes, landmines. However, here’s where we’re shit out of luck. Nerve agents are developed to be undetectable by chemical scan equipment.”

“About that,” Garrus says. He admires Jane’s easy authority. Where most leaders lack, Jane excels and gets things done. Several days on her squad, he now knows this is down to her ability to see a much wider picture than most people and plot a course of action in seconds. The tasks she’s distributed are designed to make the most of the resources she has. He hits a couple of keys on his laptop and monitors all around the table now mirror his. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

Jeff interrupts, pointing at his screen. “Hang on, what’s this feed doing? I haven’t seen this before.”

“That’s GLONASS,” Garrus confirms, unflappable even when Jeff’s eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets.

“You got us clearance for the Russians’ global positioning system?”

“If I’d asked, we’d still be waiting for it. I hacked it last night.”

Silence is thick in the room. Jane eventually breaks it. “Can they trace it to us?”

“Eventually. Not for while though.”

“Why did we need to hack into Russian intelligence?”

Wrex’s question is valid. Garrus smiles. “Russia has the most up to date inventory of chemical storage facilities around the world. They also monitor all stocks of prohibited or restricted-use chemicals. Eden Prime is shut down; their stocks have remained at same level since the attack, so they’re not the source for the Zaatari incident. We track the chemicals, who bought any, who sold any and whoever handles them.”

“What about supplies on the black market?”

Garrus acknowledges Kaidan’s point. “Entire market is a black market for these kinds of chemicals. All known suppliers are in this database; Russian GRU has been more than thorough in their mapping. Besides, substances used in all chemical attacks in the past ten years have been traced to known laboratories, with nerve agents either sold or stolen, a combination of compromised security, inventory fraud or identity theft at the root of the transactions.” A world map now replaces the GPS feed on the monitor, blue dots marking facilities already located. “Here are all the stocks tracked by Russia, the main Assad government ally. I suggest we analyse stock levels and how they’re used today, as well as any recent historical transactions. We red-flag any stock depletion or production acceleration and focus on any facility of interest.”

“Do we have the resources for this scale of surveillance and investigation?”

“Hopefully we don’t need any bums on seats for this. I contracted a Silicon Valley machine learning and AI start-up; as of,” he checks his watch, “two hours ago, they’re working on a proof of concept for us. I expect we can program two bots for this purpose, get twenty four-hour productivity out of them. However, we can’t focus just on who has how much of what, we need to figure out the entire ecosystem around operating these facilities.”

Jane pulls a chair and powers up her own laptop. “How do we do that?”

“More hacking, I’m afraid. I’ve got a couple of collaborators on it; they’re cloning procurement systems for all these suppliers and they’ll deploy a tracing algorithm. We’ll tap into their financials as well, bank accounts, known associates. Eyes everywhere.”

“The key is how do we determine legitimate business from suspicious transactions. What’s the threshold here?”

“That’s up to us to define. With any machine learning process, we still need to teach the machine what to do, what to look for first. I’ve got some ideas, but I’m low on time. Any volunteers?”

To everyone’s surprise, Tali pipes up. “Can I help? I’ve got a Business Analysis degree, put me to work please. I have too much time on my hands as it is.”

Jane meets Garrus’ eyes over the mass of equipment. They haven’t discussed how to deal with the Tali issue beyond getting to Adana. For the rest of the world, Tali is still presumed dead. For now, they can use any help they can get. “Get to work, then. Garrus, I’ll make sure Anderson signs off on any expenses.”

Resources are not an issue, especially with his C-Sec budget and more. If UN doesn’t pay for this, Garrus will. Past experience has taught him fast decision-making makes the difference between life and death, and he avoids taking decisions without facts. There’s more to his plan, though.

“May I suggest a second tactic, Jane? Once we map all stock levels, the UN should move to secure them. With two nerve gas incidents in less than two weeks, the Sec Council is in a position to negotiate agreements with local governments and demand that all corporations and interests involved will ensure full cooperation and transparency in their operations. Where there’s no such cooperation, the UN can impose sanctions on trade and business. We may not pre-empt another strike completely, but we may gain sufficient information to give us a chance.”

They both know Binary Helix Pharma is likely one of the corporations that will be listed in their research. It makes absolute sense to contain their influence; at the same time, it signals open intent to go to war on corporations, and likely governments, involved in nerve agent manufacturing. It’s a bold move and one that she likely needs to sell to Anderson. Garrus is right, though, and she’ll back him up on this. And speaking of Garrus, there’s one last issue to address.

“Final point and I’ll let you get some breakfast. We’ve confirmed Saren’s involvement in Garrus’ abduction.” Interest is piqued around the table; no one questions Jane’s statement though and it makes Garrus doubly grateful that his backstory isn’t aired in front of the squad. Jane waves Ashley closer. “It’s critical that we follow up on all information on Eden Prime, including what research is in Tali’s files. Evidence of Saren’s involvement is eluding us. Ashley, I’m forwarding all existing leads to you; prioritise this for today, I want something tangible for the captain by the time we’re in Adana tomorrow.”

She turns to the rest of them. “Everyone clear on what to do? Cool, grab your coffees before I finish the lot and step on it.”

With a small line for the breakfast spread in front of her, Tali turns the tv sound up. Footage from last night’s Conservative rally at Tampa Convention Centre plays. Camera pans out on the several thousand people gathered, red MAGA posters punctuating the crowd. TV anchor commentary pauses to allow full volume audio.

_“We will become a rich nation again. But to become a rich nation, we must also be a safe nation. Hillary Clinton wants a five hundred and fifty percent increase in Syrian refugees pouring into this country.”_ Loud boos from the crowd drown the microphone. _“Over and above the thousands and thousands and thousands that are already coming in. You want to see a problem, this is a Trojan horse, modern day version. Her plan will import generations of terrorism and radicalism into your schools and throughout your communities.”_

“What a tool.” Kaidan echoes everyone’s thoughts, disgust all over his face.

Next to him, Tali has turned ashen. “No way this guy makes president, right?”

Typing awkwardly with one hand, Garrus spares a look at the tv. “I don’t know. Chaos is a ladder.”

“Did you just quote Game of Thrones? You did, didn’t you?” Jeff looks around but everyone’s already getting on with their allocated business, Kaidan dialling the UN liaison for Middle East for their Jordanian contacts, Ashley at Jane’s side scrolling through emails. “He did, right? Kaidan?”

 

14 JUN 2016 0408

 

“Unable to sleep?” Jane stops at the edge of the table, leans on it. She wonders whether it’s too early to go look for caffeine.

Garrus finishes typing a message – slower with his left hand, she notices - closes his laptop. He pushes the swivel chair away from the desk to look at her. Lack of sleep is written all over his face. “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“You.”

So goddamn confident. And a good liar. There’s no way he’s up because of her. Or not just her. He’s a perfectionist who can’t rest until he’s completed a task and he’s been after Saren for a long time, the kind of time that leaves deep marks behind. Whatever his reasons, the way he looks at her right now… Her eyes close as she swallows the knot in her suddenly fucking dry throat. She opens them again; he leans forward in his chair, one elbow on his knee, the other arm still in a sling, hair messy and eyes cloudy with intent, and she knows exactly the invitation she projects back. He reads her like a fucking comic book under a magnifying glass. In full daylight.

Feet wheeling the chair closer until he’s right in front of her, eyes level with her waist, he gives her a sideways glance, pushes closer, closer until she hops on the table, knees apart, welcoming him between them. His lips breathe her through the cotton of the t-shirt she wore to bed, his left hand settles on her bare thigh. “How amenable would you be if I kissed you?”

“Where?” She returns his whisper.

“Here.” Still sitting, he drags his mouth slowly on the inside of her thigh. “And here.” An open mouth kiss on her hip leaves a wet mark on her t-shirt. His fingers move to squeeze her waist. He watches her between thick lashes. “Everywhere.”

Breath squeezes out of her lungs in slow motion. She reaches a hand, runs it through the closely trimmed hair at his nape. “Vakarian, I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

His chuckle vibrates in his throat, where it’s pressed against her leg, chin propped on her leg. She craves more touch points, more skin plastered to him, clothes optional. When he finally gets up, chest rising against hers, hips cradled by her legs, they fit together so well it’s like a homecoming. Nudging her legs around his waist, arms on his shoulders, Garrus speaks into her ear. “Hang on.”

With a suppressed giggle, she does, clinging to him as he manoeuvres them several steps away into the small room that Jeff commandeered as a comms room when they arrived. Still carrying her, he hooks a foot around the door and closes it behind them. And then pressing her into the wall, whatever was soft, gentle a minute ago morphs into a raging display of desire as he finally kisses her, tongue demanding, hot breath consuming. He kisses like a starved man, eyes slammed shut, breaths swallowed and Jane gives as good as she gets, fingers twisted in his hair, mouths dancing a messy tango of pulls and clash of teeth. Garrus hitches her up against the wall, her ankles now crossed behind him. He pulls her t-shirt off with his good arm, doesn’t even wait for her to drop it altogether, that he’s back, kissing her hard, teeth now set against her bottom lip. Thank fuck he holds her up, because her knees buck anyway, memory and present meshed together and fucking with her head.

As he moves his lips – and teeth – down to her neck, she finally finds her voice. “Last time we did this, I had a mark right there for at least a week afterwards.”

He halts immediately, puts a little distance between them. She can feel the tremble in his fingers, light against her ribs. “Do you want me to stop?”

Her head bangs on the wall behind, eyes squeezed close to hid the emotion there. His concern, while touching, is so unwarranted. Flexing fingers, she presses him back on her pulse point, giving him better access, head turned to the side. “No, I’m saying I remember. All of it. And I want all of it, again.”

His growl, goddamn it, she feels it in her bones. It’s low, feral, possessive; it makes her hips jerk, searching for more friction. His teeth mark her, unforgiving. His fingers go to her tits, cupping, squeezing, dragging his nails over her skin, as she keeps shuddering on top of him. When he untangles her legs and sets her down, she moans in frustration. “Shh,” he whispers with a little bite to her ear that nearly sends her melting to the floor. “My shoulder’s not comfortable. Let’s try something else.” He slides to kneel in front of her, dragging her shorts along. The look he gives her, at her feet but totally in control, is pure filth. “Come on, N7, soldiers like to get dirty,” he says, nudging her legs apart to put his mouth on her cunt.

Jane bucks against him, shooting a leg out to prop herself against the desk on the far wall. It slips and she struggles to keep standing, but it really matters too little because he’s even better than she remembered, confident lips and tongue and holy shit, soldier, so much enthusiasm. She rides his mouth, holding him to her, taking every drop of pleasure off his tongue. When he shoves two fingers inside her, hooked against her front, while sucking on her clit, Jane gives up trying to stand.

“I’ve got you,” he says as she slides to sit against the wall, legs bent, wide open either side of him. He kisses her again, swallowing her moan when his fingers find her cunt again, wet and hot and waiting. “Give me a hand,” he gasps, nodding to where his fingers disappear inside her. “Touch yourself.”

“Fuck, fuck, yes.” Jane moans in his mouth, slips a hand to spread her lower lips apart, finds her clit. He watches dazed, blinks sweat out of his eyes, then leans to bite her nipple. He sucks on it, teasing his tongue to soothe the bite, then closes his teeth around it again, chuckling as she convulses on his fingers. Her hand speeds up on her clit.

“That’s it. Keep going.” He encourages her, forehead propped on her breastbone, watching their two hands. Jane comes apart, legs closing to trap his fingers inside. Garrus shuffles closer to kiss her neck, as she rides her orgasm, wild on his hand.

“Holy fuck,” she sighs, body mellowing, releasing him from the pull of her.

Garrus chuckles, pushing backwards to sit against the opposite wall. “Right back at you,” he says, an affectionate smile on his face.

His hands – hand – are full of warm, satisfied woman soon, as Jane crawls into his lap and demonstrates a terrifying efficiency in opening his belt and unzipping his jeans. His cock is hard and he has to breathe even harder to find the strength to halt her hands. “Shit, shit. Stop. Please. I’ve got no condoms on me. I didn’t think I’d need them in the field.”

She can’t help it; she laughs, laughs so hard she starts hiccupping. Cock throbbing in the circle of her hands, he reflects her amusement to a much lesser degree. “I can’t believe boy scout Vakarian, who joined my squad packing five sniper guns and twelve drones, who kills people with his bare hands, doesn’t carry condoms on him.”

“Do you have any?” He challenges.

_Touché_. She shakes her head, mirth almost gone from her eyes.

“There you go, woman.” He gives her a quick kiss. “It’s fine, let me get up and go walk it off.”

“For fucks sake. Shut up.” She’s right up in his face, dragging her dripping cunt on top of his boxers to make a point. Hands painful in his hair, she rubs herself a few times, to let him know she’s not going anywhere, then slides back straddling his legs. With a tap to his thigh, she says. “Lift.”

His hips move fluidly, nearly bouncing her off in eagerness. She pulls his jeans down, just past his ass, enough to free his erection. The balance of dominance tilts in her favour, even though she’s the one naked while he’s barely exposed. Just in case her intention is not clear, she licks along her palm, then wraps it around his cock and gives him a tight tug. Head lowered to the top of his thighs, there’s a little show she wants to put on, lips open just so, dragging them up, then down, all the way to the base. Tongue peeking for a small lick, she leans further down, then sucks one of his balls into her mouth. His cock twitches, a snarl in his throat signalling that he got with the program.

Heat meets dampness when she finally puts her lips around him, tongue flat against the underside of his cock. She tests how far she can take him; Garrus is… proportional, to put it politely. As her lips add suction into play, he doesn’t even notice that she can only fit a little of half of his length in her mouth; in fact, he’s biting back a growl, sweat beading at his hairline. His taste now trails on her tongue, precome leaking at his tip, bitter and salty, entirely welcome; in her belly, desire blooms again. She slips a hand between her legs, impatient for some friction. Her cunt is tender to the touch, but holy shit, she’s so wet.

“Christ, that’s so hot. Can you come again?” His words are breathless, but damn it, can he just lose control for a moment? Trust him not to miss anything, not even through a blow job. “I thought you read my file, Vakarian. Did you skip the part about me being an over-achiever?”

“I thought it meant professional achiev-“ Garrus’ voice breaks on the particularly vicious suck she gives. Her lips are a temptation that he’s powerless to resist. Scrabbling for purchase on the concrete floor, he thrusts into her mouth. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

She doesn’t. Each pull of her mouth triggers a heave in his chest, as he works hard to keep it together for longer. Fingers trembling against her cheek where it hollows, he growls. “I want to see you.”

“Too bad, no room,” she says. “Find a bed next time.”

She comes while she’s still sucking his cock, mesmerised by the way he hits his head on the wall, by the spasms of his hand in her hair, his eyes, either glossy and unfocused or frantic. She removes fingers drenched in her second orgasm from her cunt and before she can second guess it, still riding the kind of high that kills inhibition, she shows him, mouth off his length for a few seconds. Moisture clings to her digits. “See?”

Lightning fast, Garrus yanks her hand to his mouth, licking her fingers, making her toes curl, aftershocks still tingling just under her skin. Jane dives back and this time she can nearly fit all of him in her mouth, his tip grinding against the top of her throat, her eyes watery with concentration. The heat, the suction is enough to buck him into her, spilling with a barked whine. She swallows, then chokes a little, pulling off but still jerking him with her right hand. Come drips on her fingers and she keeps stroking, until he bends to lick at her lips, using the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe her hand.

Garrus collapses against the wall, dragging her onto his chest. “Over-achiever. Noted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLONASS - a space-based satellite navigation system operating in the radionavigation-satellite service, built in Soviet Union in the 70s and under continuous development in today's Russian Federation
> 
> GRU - Main Intelligence Directorate (abbreviated GRU) is the foreign military intelligence agency of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation; as influence goes, they're far more powerful than FSB


	9. Hide From The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot and more plot.

15 JUN 2016 0938 (local time GMT +7)

 

Eight thousand kilometres away, in a nondescript building in an affluent part of Puerto Princesa, bearing the blue and yellow brand colours of Extens Chem Engineering, Chief Laboratory Technician Francisco Hernandez spends the good part of two hours updating the facility’s inventory. Several shipments arrived overnight.

Francisco doesn’t need to check his inbox to know that instructions already await him, with a deadline that he cannot afford to miss. This is not the first time he has performed the procedure. God willing, it will not be the last either. As usual, he’s grateful for the 16.5C constant temperature of the lab that makes it near impossible to sweat. The amount of phosphorus trichloride required comes from four different production units, each with a slightly different chemical signature that he needs to equalise and stabilise, before moving to the next stage in the process. His employers have the resources to locate the chemicals, even transport them to Palawan islands, where the remote facility is located, with utmost efficiency. They expect the same in return, at a minimum.

Francisco checks the time. His team headed to the cafeteria for lunch minutes ago. He wishes he could join them. A new email arrives just in time to let him know that’s not a luxury he can afford. He dictates a considered reply, then slips on his protective suit, thinking of the wife and daughter back in Manila. If nothing goes wrong, he’ll have a finished product in eight hours. If anything does, go wrong that is, he suspects that’s the last thing he’ll be worried about. Ever.

 

15 JUN 2016 0912 (local time GMT +1)

 

With a quick thank you and a good tip for the barista who spent more than five minutes getting his order ready, Weaver exits the coffee shop that occupies a good chunk of the ground floor of his office building. It’s a little too hipster-ish for his taste and the staff are continuously disappointed that none of the coffee he buys is skinny or made with soy or coconut milk, but nothing beats convenience. Bookended between Farringdon and Old Street, in what is ambitiously known as the Silicon Roundabout, the building is less than ten minutes’ walk from the tube. Fittingly, although none of it is down to chance, there are only five CCTV cameras from the station to the building, and each feed has already been altered to play a loop of innocuous footage if anyone bothers to check. Despite the technology and brain power amassed in less than two square miles, it’s easy to remain anonymous in this part of London. And get government subsidies that pay for your rent, he laughs to himself.

Head down, baseball cap on, Weaver takes the hi-tech lift up to the ninth floor. A quick retinal scan and frosted doors open into a large open space office. On the far wall, servers hum, row after row, encased in a temperature-controlled glass box affectionately known as the fish bowl. Operating status, confirmed by the light box on the access door, is all green. Today is a good day.

His desk is neat, organised. Two twenty-seven-inch monitors side by side, a sleek keyboard, a built-in touch-activated mouse, that’s it, that’s the way he likes it. He’s not in charge of programming, but analysing data that is fed to his station twenty-four-seven from news, social media, private channels and government sources requires zero distractions.

He frisbees his baseball cap into a basket; it lands on top of at least another twenty. What started as precaution became a joke; they wear caps to avoid cameras and facial recognition software, so now they have a permanent stash in the office, each one picked up on their travels. His says Punta Cana and reminds him of catamaran rides in the sunshine. He drops off the coffees and muffins in the kitchen area. The smell of the fresh brew attracts the only other people in the office. Each finds their usual order. There’s harmony in working in the same formation for years. Besides, they’re men, they communicate in grunts and nods. And email.

Speaking of, a small vibration on his iWatch advises that there’s more than five hundred emails in his inbox to tackle. With a crack of fingers, he sits down to start another shift. He’s already typing a reply, none of the emails high on the priority scale, so he shouts a question to the two men still in the kitchen. “What’s the mood today?”

“Half-way between pissed and very pissed,” comes the answer. “They’re on the move. I’ve synced up satellite surveillance. Check channel four on yours.”

Authentication passed, the stylised wings of their logo circle several times, loading screen. Weaver shouts back. “Got it.” Yeah, the small convoy is on the go. At current speed and with no interference, they’ll be at their destination in about five hours. He can work with this. “Okay, what else?”

Used to his debrief methods, the same man barks back. “Peruvian elections, NATO naval exercise in the Med, Iraq special forces mobilising to assault Fallujah. Which one you wanna talk through first?”

 

15 JUN 2016 0545 (local time GMT +3)

 

Jeff has worked some magic on the two Makos, but it’s still a miracle that the vehicles are in driving condition. They’re on the road on time, the look of relief on the local police bordering on celebratory. What should be a two-hour journey will likely be triple that, given the state of the cars. They split up based on injuries, Jane behind the wheel of Mako 1, despite the fact it still has no driver door or windshield, Kaidan shotgun for combat assistance, Ashley and Tali behind them. The rest pile into Mako 2, where Garrus occupies the real estate in the back seat and carries on working. They open a comms link between the two vehicles as soon as they’re out the gates. Now that roads have actual letters in front of numbers on a map and driving is mostly safe, there’s a lot to recap before they make it to the base in Adana.

First up, Zaatari. Kaidan’s involvement accelerates the investigation. A first lead turns up, a new supplier that took up the contract for canned goods and non-perishable items only two weeks ago. The company itself, registered in Amman, has been operational for three months. Whatever procurement process the government in the Jordanian capital uses, it’s either flawed or corrupt. Likely both. Wrex’s connections push the enquiry forward also, on a personal level they cannot hope to achieve on their own. “A little spark can kindle a great fire,” he says, “Inshallah.” The added caveat makes Tali laugh.

Next, Garrus. The start-up he contracted comes through with a proof of concept. Two bots now churn through all existing data they pulled out of GLONASS; the robots have been at it for less than twenty-four hours, but they already flagged over seventy facilities around the world where stock of all chemicals required for VX manufacture are available as of today. Another two hundred facilities holding partial stocks and more than one hundred that produce various components make up a pretty grim big picture.

The sheer scale renders all of them quiet. Tali has been busy designing filter criteria to narrow down their scope. The algorithm is now working through the classification they set up. Even with nothing else, this should help the Council discuss sanctions on countries that don’t curb their stocks or don’t submit to UN control on this. It’s a solid prevention strategy, Jane admits, but findings are days away. Results… even further.

Operational for over sixty years, Adana base sprawls over a thousand hectares of hangars, aircraft shelters, air strips and even nuclear bunkers. Their welcoming committee includes a Navy Captain and a press officer, which makes Jane uncomfortable, and Garrus highly suspicious. They both request complete embargo on communications surrounding their presence and Anderson quickly steps in to deliver agreement from base senior officers with immediate effect. With space carved out for communal living and sleep quarters, the squad is back to work within an hour of their arrival.

Everyone busy without immediate supervision required means it’s time Jane tackles a matter she’s been avoiding. “Tali, walk with me for a few minutes?”

Tali braces herself, shoulders pulled back, resolve in her brown eyes. Jane’s instinct is to reassure her, but she stops. Instead, she turns around, leading the woman outside, into the afternoon sun. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk much.” The sentiment is absolutely true, but it doesn’t relax Tali. Jane presses on. “Right now, you are presumed dead. If you agree, we can go public and say we rescued you during our mission. I’ll do my best to make sure you’re secure but you might be out of my jurisdiction pretty quick. I can’t predict how Binary Helix will react.”

The implication is clear and both women know it. Unflinching, Tali asks. “What’s behind door number two?”

“We keep your identity secret. For now, if possible, or permanently. Join my squad. We’ll craft a new background for you; you can be our biochem expert. When we’re done, you and your family go into the witness protection program, country of your choosing, a whole new life for you to build.”

“Will the UN guarantee this in writing?”

Tali’s a smart cookie. “Yes,” Jane says. The truth is, any guarantee will be dependent on the strength of the evidence they uncover. Not even the UN is as honourable as they used to be, but so help her, Jane will argue for the right thing to do if it’s the last thing she does.

“Well then, there’s not much to debate, is there?”

Unfortunately, no. Jane squeezes her shoulder. “Welcome to the team. Officially, that is. I’ll let the rest know.”

“Thanks,” Tali returns her smile. “I’d better get back to it, then.” On her way back inside, she passes Garrus, who’s watched their conversation from a distance.

Jane follows, stopping in front of him. Back blocking the door, he pulls her closer, toe to toe. In the constant noise around them, surrounded by nameless troops, aircraft and weapons, they breathe each other’s air, her forehead to his cheek. They stand like that, just outside the door, borrowing precious seconds, holding onto the little bubble they’ve created, wishing for more. More time, more them. They don’t even kiss, just stand, the lightest touch between them. Later, after Garrus pulls her along inside, work beckoning, Ashley points out the trace of blue paint at the top of her nose. Jane laughs and rubs it off. She pauses to see the paint coming off on her fingers, unmistakable reminder of him, and blushes before reluctantly wiping her hand on her khakis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inshallah - If God wills it


	10. Feel My Heart Implode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter - unforgivably late - is dedicated to RedRavens, who's been reading my story from the beginning. Thank you for all the cheerleading - HAPPY BIRTHDAY! This one is for you. <333

24 JUN 2016 1821 (local time GMT +3)

 

 

“Coffee?”  
  
Kaidan’s question pulls her out of the report she’s been reading. Jane accepts a fresh mug; her blood is surely half caffeine by now. She surveys the rest of the common room. The last nine days have been a hell of long hours spent analysing data and chasing superiors for access, bypassing firewalls and looking for leads. Looking for a break. No one’s fared well in enclosed space. Jeff starts spamming their online chat with ‘one step forward, two steps back’ memes on day two. Less than one percent are funny. By day four, Garrus becomes too restless for a desk; he sits on the ground propped by the wall, typing or quietly talking on the phone. When he’s not working, he’s exercising in the base gym, at first jogging, then boxing when his brace is removed. Navigating a chain of command for each action and decision rubs him the wrong way and he leaves that particularly lovely job to Shepard. It’s not just once Shepard wonders just how much autonomy he’s used to, but it's clear this ain't it. They’ve even drafted Wrex into the process, in those few hours in between liaising with different factions in Syria and local authorities. Kaidan, Ashley, Tali, all are involved. Not a single one of them is sleeping, not that anyone would admit it. They just encourage each other, with a dead man’s enthusiasm that sounds fake even to their own ears.  
  
Progress is close, Jane knows it though, tasting bitter and sweet at the same time on her tongue. When the algorithm that Garrus coordinates via the bots finally spits out the geo-analysis of all the biochemical intel they’ve leeched off the Russians and collected from their own UN sources, Jane does something she’s never done before and calls in a favour from Anderson.  
  
She calls a squad meet as soon as she gets the green light from the captain. “Listen up. We have requested local jurisdiction support in seven locations, to search premises, seize assets and conduct arrests. In at least five of these locations, we need court orders or equivalents before we kick down the doors; that takes time,” a riot of swearing rings out. At least there’s consensus on what they hate the most. “That takes time,” Shepard emphasises, “so as of two minutes ago, you’re on shore leave for the next forty eight hours. The base has given us use of three jeeps. Bring them back in working condition and don’t make me come bail you out. I’ve seen Turkish prisons before, they’re not fun. Get out, I don’t want to see your faces in here until Sunday.”  
  
A few seconds of disbelief are followed by loud whooping, that gives way just as quickly to a cacophony of shouting, most of the crew heading towards their sleeping quarters. Unsurprisingly, Garrus hangs back, exhaustion slightly less etched on his face when he stalks to her. “Does shore leave extend to you too?”  
  
Jane wants to smile. So much. The last few days have been rough though; they have barely had time to speak outside debriefs and strategy. It’s been days since they stole a couple of kisses, while the others had lunch, heavy petting more frustrating than anything. She goes for humour instead, unsure of where they stand right now. “Depends. Will it make you less grumpy?”  
  
“Yes or no, Jane.”  
  
_Okay_ , she thinks. The intensity in his eyes raises goosebumps on her flesh. “Yes.”  
  
“Have you got plans already?”  
  
How does she confess the only thing she planned on doing was him? She shakes her head, coy smile fading as he turns to walk away. She stamps down the compulsion to pick up a laptop and hurl it at his head, when he fishes something out of his pocket, throwing it to her over his shoulder.  
  
“Pack an overnight bag,” he calls, walking backwards toward the exit, checking she’s caught the keys. “I’ll text you an address. Meet you there in two hours.” His wink is too confident even from twenty yards away. “Throw a swimsuit in there, if you have one, although I won’t mind if you don’t.”  
  


***

“Where did you find this place?”

“Airbnb,” he grins and earns himself a smack on the arm.

“Come on,” she pulls him inside, barefoot and wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe. The wide, open space of a living room stretches into a terrace and beyond, the sea glitters bluer than his eyes. The door slams shut behind him. “Come see this.”

With a tug she’s jerked backwards, pulled into his chest, her back to Garrus’ chest. “Wait,” he says. “Give me a minute, I’ll see it later.” He kisses her hair, finds a path to her temple with his lips. It’s innocent, sweet, a reacquainting of kind, until it’s not, when his mouth trails over her ear, hot breath with it, a nip to the outer shell. It’s a heads up for what follows as he finds her neck, pulls the collar of the robe aside, clean skin inviting him closer. He kisses with full mouth, the drag of lips leaving moisture and goosebumps behind them. One pass, two, then more kissing, tongue licking with lazy abandon. One hand finds her bare thigh under the bathrobe, starts stroking up, slowly like they have not been starving for this moment for days. His other hand unties the robe and cups a breast, thumbs her nipple, small pulls first light, then more determined. And his lips still drag over the exposed right shoulder, nose bumping into her occasionally, slow and unhurried.

When she feels his mouth opening, feels the first press of teeth on her neck, she can’t suppress the bone deep shiver that makes her lower body jackknife in his hands. With a last grasp of control, she pushes his hands off and grits. “Shower, now.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” he laughs.  It’s rare to hear, full laughter that shakes his shoulders. It makes her happy she caused it, although she’d rather have more of his moaning right now. His tshirt drops in the small hallway. Boots are discarded, jeans shoved to the floor in the bathroom. The string of bruises on his back have turned yellow but he moves a lot easier now, arm at near full mobility, straight into the walk-in shower. He throws a bunch of condoms on the counter, wiggling his eyebrows at her. That’s right, he’s come prepared and seeing him so shameless sends a new shiver through her.

He steps under the spray and at the last minute he drags her inside, laughter dying on her lips as water hits them. Unlike the hallway, this kiss is volcanic, a rush of lips and tongue and teeth, a tangle of the senses that causes blood to pump loudly in her ears. He strips the robe off before it soaks completely, kicking it out of the way. His hands frame her face, he’s so hungry for her, like no one else before him wanted her this way. 

When skin meets skin again, it’s like their bodies want to melt together, all trace of space removed from in-between. Jane’s hands tangle in his hair, one knee hitched on his hip. Garrus lowers a hand, grabs her ass, kneading flesh with greed, grinding her into him. His hard-on already digs into her belly and his fingers sneak between her cheeks to find her hot and just as greedy. His teeth find her throat, just a nip, just as his fingers sink into her, two, long and knowing. Echo bounces off the walls when Jane cries out, pushed into the wall, raised up on her toes to give him room, those fingers now three, deep inside. Jane’s nails leave marks down his back and Garrus retaliates, bowing down, pulling a tit into his mouth, a hint of teeth around a nipple. His tongue is hot and talented and makes Jane go dizzy in his arms, dancing along her skin like worship. He kneels in front of her, trapping her to the wall, lips finding her cunt for a quick swipe of tongue. The fingers he just had inside her, he pushes into her mouth for a quick taste and with a wicked smirk, he bites her clit lightly, then buries his face into her cunt, nose to her mound, mouth feasting on her. His tongue separates her lips, slips inside to lift up her juice, swallows it and revels in the pleasure he gives her, water beating down warm on his back, steam rising around them.

Jane comes with quaking whispers of _don’t stop, don’t stop,_ taut body turning soft around Garrus’ fingers. He leaves his place with another suck on her clit, a little painful on the heels of her orgasm, and he drowns her hiss with his mouth. He flips her over, so she can hold onto the showerhead, slaps the controls to stop the water that’s just about turning cold and palms her cunt. She trembles through the come down, watching over her shoulder as he suits up. His voice makes her shiver, mouth to her ear. “Still with me?”

“Fuck me already,” Jane bites out and gets her wish, cock pushing into her, with no teasing and no mercy. She’s full, so full; is this what it felt like five years ago, she wonders. _This good, this full?_ Or is it better now that she knows the man fucking her? And if it’s the latter, how much better does it get, after she peels off the layers he hides under? The snap of hips at her thighs, balls slapping skin with sounds that should be obscene but she can’t help wishing they were louder, drowning her craving for more. The teeth that find that spot under her hairline, one that’ll always be hidden by her shirt, where he bites and sucks skin and bites again until she chokes with the need for more. The arms that hold her up, strong and unyielding; _I’ve got you_ , they say, safe between them, safe to let go, to stop thinking and to just feel.

When she tightens on his cock, Garrus stops to savour it, one hand squeezing a breast, letting her float down to him when pleasure lets up. He pulls out and turns her gently, boosts her into his arms and carries her to the bathroom counter. “Hi,” he says, searching her eyes, before pressing their foreheads together.

“Hi,” she breaths out, voice still shaky. “I missed --” she nearly says _you_ , then finishes. “This.”

“Yeah,” Garrus smiles, echoes of raw emotion in his eyes. Five years or two weeks, Jane doesn’t know and can’t ask because he pulls her closer to the edge. With a couple of slick fingers, he spreads her open and slides inside, slow, slow, swallowing her moan, until his balls are flush with her ass and she is locked in between the cool tiles and his demanding body. Holding her knees to his chest, he’s relentless and determined, moving inside her with force and eye-rolling strength. Jane’s hands join his fingers where they dig into her calves and she hangs onto him, eyes on each other, until he shouts his release, hips snapping a couple more times, stealing that last bit of ecstasy from her cunt.

Garrus falls onto her, tongue sneaking a lick of the sweat that pools between her tits, then drags them both out of the bathroom and into the first bedroom he finds. With his head on her shoulder, one leg between hers, he falls asleep and Jane soon follows. Forty four hours left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is addictive, I hope you know this. Thank you for all the support!


	11. Bound Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the total indulgence. I wanted to spend a bit more time in this calm before the storm moment, before everything blows up. Normal timeline will resume from next chapter onwards. The only thing you'll miss if you skip this is smut.

“You’d tell me,” his fingers trace the marks he put on her skin, “if I got too rough?”

Morning light filters through curtains no one bothered to pull properly. Abrasions from his stubble dot Jane’s throat; light red bruises map his passion across her shoulders and breasts. Then, on the underside, slightly off centre, there’s a darker bruise, angry purple, where his teeth celebrated a second orgasm, sometime in the dead of night, senses suspended by an overspill of exhaustion and euphoria.

Jane’s stomach shakes under his cheek and he lifts his head to watch her laugh. “I’m not some fragile flower, Vakarian.” Her hand plays in his hair, scratching lightly; his body relaxes into the caress, shoulders pinning her to the bed, eyes closing as he savours the touch. Slightly perched on a couple of pillows, she sees the scratches that criss-cross his back, a making of her own. “I gave as good as I got. Besides, I’ve always liked it a bit rough.”

Like flipping a switch, slumber slips away. Garrus looks up a second time, interest unmasked and unashamed. “A bit, huh?” A shoulder wiggles under her thigh, opening her to him. Lips glisten, her body well worked over, yet eager for more. “How much of _a bit_ are we talking? What would you let me do? Be specific.”

“I’d let you keep talking, for one,” Jane smarts, but regrets it as he laughs with a vicious suck to her clit. “I thought we’re talking about my fantasy, C-Sec.”

Garrus nuzzles the top of her mound, noses through the red hair on her pubis and shoots her a look that’s supposed to be apologetic. “Go on, I’ll be good.”

“No, don’t,” she says, pushing him back to her pussy, “don’t be good. I don’t want good. Fuck good. I don’t want you to be able to control yourself. I want you to pull my hair, hold me face down, fuck me from behind. Spank me a little, rough me up, as long as you’re not too far away. I like it if you take the lead, just as long as you’re right here with me. Fuck yes,” her thighs squeeze together, when Garrus uses a finger to spread her lips apart. “Bite me, here,” she says, letting go of the sheet she’s been fisting to trace a line from her ear to the chest, pinching a nipple as she goes, “anywhere, _yes_ ,” she whines as his teeth find the flesh where her leg meets her ass and bites down hard, one finger still inside her.

“What else?” The question itself is demanding, his voice guttural. Her taste on his lips is tart when he licks them, waiting for her to go on. Greed is everywhere, in his voice, in his eyes, in his mouth when he lowers it back to her cunt when she keeps talking.

“Toys.” The confession rips out of her, blush staining her skin, a secret she clearly hasn’t shared with many. “I like toys.” N7 isn’t great for personal life and she doesn’t need to explain that to him. When he adds a second finger, crooking them against her front wall, she doesn’t give a damn about the fact that for the past five years, her boyfriends have been all plastic.

“I’d let you use them on me. I’d suck your cock while you fuck me with one,” she admits and it’s Garrus’ turn to stutter, mouth going slack around her, just for a second, just enough to demand. “Go on.”

Flustered by his request, Jane’s hips stop moving. Her eyes grow wide at his dead serious expression, fingers buried deep inside her but unmoving, his other hand splayed on her ribcage. “Keep talking.”

“Okay.” Powerless to deny him, Jane swallows, mouth dry. “My favourite’s a glass dildo. It’s not too big, but shaped just right.”

Garrus gets up to his knees and pushes her legs further apart. “Tell me how you get off.”

Jane glows, a sheen of perspiration layered on her flushed skin. He watches her as she finds the words to describe her pleasure. “I’m on my back. Or in the bath, when I can. I fuck myself with it. One hand on my clit. I like to start slow, but time’s usually tight, so I speed up as soon as I’m slick, before my arm can seize.” Garrus has three fingers in her now, thumb on her clit rubbing sideways, chasing her ecstasy in the now. Jane is his sole focus, true for each of their encounters so far, so she decides to reward him. “It’s so rigid inside of me. My body warms it up and it’s good, so good. I come hard around it. Heat burns in my stomach, my toes curl, eyes screwed shut. My pussy hurts, but in the best way. The next day, I still feel well fucked, underneath my good soldier uniform.”

Her sigh gets lost in their kiss, when he descends on her mouth, demanding surrender. Her eyes, trapped for so long into his hungry gaze, finally close, releasing her to succumb to the pleasure that has been building between her legs. Jane thrashes as Garrus’ fingers drive deep, hands leaving fresh nail tracks on his back, until instinct takes over and her body trembles beneath his in bliss.

Later, when morning has almost become afternoon and the need for coffee sends him shopping, Garrus returns to find Jane checking emails in the kitchen. She wears his spare tshirt, a little large on her, and nothing else, so he pushes her face down on the granite island, ass up in the air, raised until her feet can’t touch the ground. He binds her arms with his belt, just tight enough so she won’t get out on her own. And he fucks her, hard, long, his jeans still around his knees, with slaps to her ass and bites to her neck, just below hairline, while Jane screams and begs him to go harder. And he does, growling his own fantasy in her ear, one that makes both of them curse the war they’re in the middle of.

When they return to base that evening, spent and far from rested, they’ve marked each other, both inside and out, in a kind of way that is hard to hide, from their squad and from themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Much love.


	12. Reasons To Be Frightened

27 JUN 2016 1144 (local time GMT +3)

 

The whirr of rigged air-con and keyboard tapping is the soundtrack to their morning. Footage of the day’s first raid streams live on the monitors. They watch as investigators pour into a sleek facility in Coimbra, a pretty town in central Portugal. Staff are removed first. None are arrested, not yet. That might change as soon as evidence is processed. Hazard-suited personnel, supervised by Europol and local Policia Judiciaria, inventories the production facilities. They move through labs and stock rooms, collecting samples, photographing equipment and documents. Data files are seized and the entire building is sealed, pending investigation.

Two hours later, the live feed switches to Switzerland and a picturesque village close to Geneva, shaken out of its tranquillity by the arrival of a convoy of Cantonal police. Blue uniforms surround the three-story building of concrete and steel. 

Two thousand miles away, Shepard’s squad watches the action first hand, on jerky body cam feed and the facility’s own surveillance. Evidence is packaged, labelled and loaded into waiting vans.

“Tali, all good so far?”

The young woman nods to Shepard. Her eyes remain glued on the laptop in front. “First evidence boxes are on their way to The Hague. Team on standby to receive and start processing.” Her enthusiasm is a stark contrast to the operation they’re supervising.

Jane hides an amused smile, but can’t help the smug look in Anderson’s direction. Securing Tali a place on the team, getting her a new identity, asking for assurances that her family will be protected. None come easily, no matter how relevant Tali’s information is, not as long as it’s all still circumstantial. Jane’s spent many hours on calls with Anderson and further up the chain, arguing her side. Every concession she won has been hard fought. Today though, they’re closer to their goal. She’s eager to demonstrate to Anderson how much Tali contributes to their success. “How many people has Europol made available?”

“Five for now, although we’re expecting two more team members to join tomorrow.”

“How will you process all the data?” Anderson asks, ignoring Shepard’s obvious attempts to show off. He arrived during the night, on a military supply run that he diverted from Pozzallo. Not to supervise. He’s learned to give her space to run her squad; her track record speaks for itself. Away from the action, administrative duties putting more politicians than soldiers in his path, it’s _this_ he misses - the heartbeat of the team, the smooth and almost blind way each cog functions to serve a higher purpose. You can leave the field, but the field never leaves you, he used to joke when he was first promoted to captain. Here in Adana, it’s the closest he’ll get back to it. 

Jane’s right to be proud though. Part of the team has been with her for some time. Jeff pre-emptively requests assignment in her squad whenever a mission wraps up; just in case, he calls it, Anderson decides to mix things up. Others she’s brought together over the course of the last few weeks. And yet, watching the scientist sitting in front of him distribute flight manifests for evidence in transit from two countries, one can be forgiven for thinking they’ve been squad mates forever. 

It’s Tali that talks Anderson through the challenges of their next task.  “For now, data processing is not our top priority. The virtual robots that Garrus procured can start churning as soon as we finish offloading the trucks. The analysis is the tricky part. The intel we collected is massive but we have the means to go through it; we need the expertise to interpret it.”

“I see,” Anderson nods. “Shepard, you’ll need to track the chemicals used in Turkey to one of these labs if you want to convince the Council to take further action in the region. Not to mention strong evidence that Saren’s involved.”

He’s right. If they don’t see actionable progress soon, they burn any shred of goodwill Anderson rallied on their behalf in the UN to pull off an investigation of this scale. The repercussions can be… career-ending, not just for Shepard, but for the captain too.

“I think there’s someone who can help on both accounts.”

Both Jane and Anderson turn to watch Garrus approach. “Good to see you again, Vakarian.”

“Same, sir,” Garrus replies, shaking the hand that has been extended.

Anderson points to the rigged-up command centre set up in the middle of their allocated common area on base. “Shepard tells me you’re one of the main reasons we’ve seen some traction in this mission.”

He’s going to have to thank Jane later, then. “The squad saved my ass, too, sir, so I’d say we’re even. Besides, we’re after the same thing. Same person.”

“Sorry to interrupt your bromance. You said there’s someone who can help?” 

Garrus fetches his laptop and pulls up a neat resume, the kind a head-hunter compiles on a candidate. Top of the page says Dr. Liara T’soni.

“A chemist?”

“ _Forensic_ chemist,” Garrus clarifies for Anderson. “Trained to analyse non-biological trace evidence found at crime scenes. More specifically, to identify unknown materials and match samples to known substances. Dr. T’soni is among the best in her field.”

“Where do we find this Doctor,” Jane checks the name, “T’soni? And how do we get her to work for us?”

“She’s currently working out of Seoul, under the co-commission of the International Seismological Centre and China University of Science and Tech. She’s investigating -”

Jane finishes the sentence for him. “North Korean ballistic testing.”

Garrus nods. “Correct. Multiple institutions have pooled resources to research the regime’s claims about the testing of a hydrogen bomb, in January. Progress appears slow, which might persuade Doctor T’soni to open to new projects.” He clicks a couple of keys and brings up a couple of pictures of the scientist, younger this time, in graduation robes, posing with what looks like family members. “There’s also this.”

Jane and the captain wait for him to go on. Another tap on the keyboard brings up a cascade of profiles. Last window to pop up shows an older version of Doctor T’soni, identified as Benezia T’soni. Garrus zooms on the employment section of the profile. 

“Motherfucker.” 

Jane’s low-key realisation overlaps Anderson’s “I’ll be damned.”

The moment is brief, the surprise temporary. “I’m not sure about this.” Jane takes over Garrus’ terminal and scrolls through the data fast. “Assuming Doctor T’soni has nothing to do with her mother’s business, and implicitly Arterius’, why would she work for us? If she is this good in her industry, she’ll see the connection to Helix Binary right away. Why collaborate with the people looking to implicate her mother?” 

“I don’t know.” Jane waits for him to carry on. She knows by now he’s not the kind of man to talk about a problem, and not have a solution in mind. “But judging by her career record, I don’t think Dr. Tsoni would agree with any of the work that Binary Helix does, if she knew what’s truly going on. Have a look at her prior deployments. Crimea, South Sudan. Central African Republic before that. Do any of these assignments sound like lucrative for-profit private sector jobs?”

Point well made, concedes Anderson. “Full background check on her in my inbox asap. You two, go speak to her, see if she’s interested.” 

“Aye, sir,” Jane mock-salutes, but Anderson’s already moving on, intent it seems on greeting the rest of the squad. With a light, backhanded smack, she makes sure Garrus’ attention is still on her.  “Which database did you hack for all this?”

A low chuckle, and Garrus shakes his head. “None. Okay, one, but only to find out Doctor T’soni’s latest location.”

Anderson stops still in earshot, then carries on walking, deciding what he doesn’t know, won’t give him heartburn. That, plus plausible deniability. 

“So, when do we talk to her?”

 

30 JUN 2016 1112 (local time GMT +9)

 

They leave Camp Casey in an army Jeep, with coffees to shake off the jet lag and takeout burgers courtesy of Uncle Sam. Fourteen hours of travel will not be easy to punch down with a couple of watered down Starbucks grandes. If they’re lucky though, they can still catch Doctor T’soni on her lunch break. For the past forty eight hours, all attempts at scheduling an appointment have been met with an invariable “earliest appointment available is after August 13” response from the doctor’s assistant. Tali’s call from the tarmac an hour ago fails to secure a different answer. However, a quick snoop - officially sanctioned by Anderson this time - into the university’s closed circuit cameras - reveals the doctor’s preference for lunch in the student cafeteria, as well as a strict routine and inclination for punctuality.

They’re an odd trio, walking onto campus. Tali wrapped in a vivid green hijabi, ends tucked inside a denim jacket. Jane, so obvious in charge, despite the off-duty khakis and a band t-shirt that has seen better days. And then a few feet back, Garrus. Usual black head to toe, this time rounded off with a baseball cap pulled so low only a hint of his blue face paint is visible. Jane clears a path through the crowd, all sheer intent and focus and Tali shadows her, ducking around the tide of people that close back in behind the commander. Garrus just slips through it, feline and light, ever-present talent for blending in even as he towers over almost everyone. 

Their timing is nearly perfect. Students disperse, the cafeteria empties slowly. And then T’soni heads towards them, towards the atrium, a shock of blue hair the only detail singling her out among the masses.

Jane steps forward. “Doctor, five minutes of your time, please.”

With no more than a look, they’re already dismissed. The doctor swerves towards the right wing of the building, where her research area is located. “My office details are posted on the university’s public site. Go through them for an appointment, please.”

Jane intercepts her for a second time. “We have. You’re not available for another seven weeks. We don’t have that kind of time.”

A hand at her elbow placates the doctor into a brief pause. Her eyes are hard, but curious. “Who exactly are you?” 

“Commander Jane Shepard, United Nations Peacekeeping Corps. I’m stationed in Turkey at the moment, in active duty on behalf of the UN Security Council.” Jane sketches a smile. “Tali Zorah and Garrus Vakarian are members of my squad. We’re hoping you can help an investigation.”

“Has the UN run out of forensic specialists?” T’soni’s smile is oddly humourless.

“Our requirements are… specific,” Jane says. “Could we speak in private, please?”

“Very well. Follow me.”

When pitch time comes, Jane and Tali sit across T’soni’s desk, in a spacious office that is clinically tidy. There is not a shred of paper anywhere, just polished glass and the shiny chrome of computers. The labs are about five levels underground, masked by the sprawling bulk of the university and almost as secure as the Pentagon. “Doctor T’soni, the work you do here is very valuable, we recognise this. Nevertheless, your progress is slow, new data trickles in gradually and the nature of your subject matter means any advancement will always be dependent on a significant geopolitical positioning you have zero influence on.”

A raised eyebrow fails to intimidate. “I’m here to see if I can make you a better offer.” Jane carries on. “We’re trying to solve mass murder, Doctor T’soni. Specifically, a string of nerve gas attacks in Turkey and Syria. We have strong grounds to believe these are just the beginning. Intel led us to securing a large cache of data and we’re parsing it as we speak.” 

A slideshow already plays on the tablet that Tali puts in front of the doctor. Almost none of the information is restricted, though no one in mass media has presented it so comprehensively interconnected. One after one, each incident is displayed, brief summary of related facts an effective counterpoint to uncensored images. The impact is devastating; Tali doesn’t bother to hide the wetness in her eyes. T’soni pauses on certain images, a frown now creasing her brow. She’s inured, but not made of stone. And cuts straight to point. “But?”

Without missing a beat, Jane holds her eyes. “But we lack the expertise to assess the data. And unless we make progress on identifying the source, we’re not getting any closer to stopping these attacks. Never mind catching those responsible and bringing them to justice.”

Jane lets the intent hang in the air, then pulls the next ace from her sleeve. “For reasons you already understand, I can’t disclose more details until you have signed a NDA with us. I am however authorised to tell you my investigation involves Binary Helix.” She lets that sink in and follows up, like a comedian landing a second punchline for maximum effect. “In multiple capacities, some on the other side of the law from where I’m sitting. If I were you, I’d see this as an opportunity.”

They definitely have T’soni’s interest now. “Are you threatening me?”

“Nope. I’m trying to recruit you. Help us in our investigation. And help exonerate your mother on the way.” Like an afterthought, Jane adds. “If that is the case.” 

“Why me though? I don’t work public sector.” T’soni carefully evaluates each one of them, no longer focused just on Shepard. The stakes just went through the roof. Humanitarian cause or not, things just got personal. “And what about my mother? What if -”

“Because you’re the best, doctor,” Garrus replies. “We can’t afford anything less. And,” Honesty is the best policy, he decides. “You are not your mother. If she is implicated, willingly or otherwise, wouldn’t you rather know?” 

“I need time to consider your proposal. And discuss with my sponsors here.” Beside the frown she wears, there’s really not much telling what T’soni thinks. 

“We understand, Doctor.” Tali picks up the data pad and runs through a brief presentation of the facilities in The Hague, where Europol is still unpacking evidence. Professional, factual, Tali is not intimidated at all by the doctor’s prickly attitude. “We are prepared to discuss a time share arrangement, provided your work on the current research can take place remotely. UN Council can put the same security measures in place before the end of next week.”

“Very well,” T’soni smiles to the young woman, possibly the one indicator that she will agree to work with them so far.

Game. Set. Match. They leave the campus with the commitment of a response within forty eight hours. The afternoon is spent planning Tali’s relocation to The Hague to supervise operations. Spirits are still high as they have dinner together close to their hotel, just a few streets down from the university, sharing _bulgogi_ and _bibimbap_ and washing the food down with a couple of beers. They say goodnight to Tali in the hotel lobby; as luck would have it - or the fifty bucks Garrus slipped to the concierge at check in - her room’s a different floor. It takes them less than thirty seconds of heavy looks in the lift to stumble into Jane’s room, a greedy mess of arms tugging at clothes. Garrus makes a feeble attempt to apologise for his impatience, Jane’s t-shirt stripped, khakis shoved off, tripping over her boots. Swallowing a breath between his hard kisses, Jane tosses his cap off, grabs his wallet and hands him a condom instead. “Shut up and fuck me, C-Sec.”

Garrus hikes her up, legs wrapped around his waist, just enough to pull jeans and boxers down. “Yes, ma’am,” he grins. He suits up, a couple of brief detours between her legs to tease as she waits. It would be rude not to give the lady what she wants, so he fucks her against the door, panties shoved aside, bra still on, but just barely, his teeth rediscovering all his favourite places to hang out, neck, collarbone and tits. 

Their second round, after a shower and a couple of waters is slightly tamer, but just about. The bed looks too inviting to ignore, so Garrus drags her down to him, lithe thighs either side of his face. He lets her grab his head as he eats her out, the scrape of his stubble rough in all the right places, the taste of her ecstasy too good to pass on. When she’s too exhausted to hang onto the headboard anymore, he puts on another condom and fucks her sideways, long, slow, with nips of teeth at the side of her neck and filthy words in her ear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback gives me wings, like Red Bull but with a lasting effect. Thanks for reading. <333


	13. Scattered Debris

05 JUL 2016 0950 (GMT +3)

 

 

Media reports the incident as a terrorist attack and hostage situation on July 4. Within minutes, UN is alerted of the alleged intentions of the assailants. Full body suits, gas masks and canisters are spotted in videos emailed by staff barricaded on the second floor of the cafe. Bangladesh’s Rapid Action Battalion and Border Guards set up a two-block perimeter. Surrounding residences and two hotels are evacuated, the threat of explosives effective. Inside the cafe, the terrorists play fast and loose with hostages. Some are released, and with them, more details of the attackers’ operation emerge. With UN Security Council’s approval, the Armed Forces deploy the First Para-Commando battalion to take the five terrorists down. The eighteen-hour window it takes to organise _Operation Thuderbolt_ takes its toll though. When special ops storms the cafe, the hip cafe has become a scene of carnage.

Still airborne, returning from Seoul, Shepard shares first reports with Garrus. With Anderson’s help, the information shared with journalists is kept to a minimum. The nerve agent the terrorists unleash is more efficient than any bullet, more gruesome than any knife. It silences its victims fast. Not long after the assailants have been gunned down by snipers, the building is quarantined. Twenty two people are declared dead on arrival. Another forty are still alive, mostly on the upper floors, some still hiding in storage closets.  By the time Shepard lands in Turkey, more than half have succumbed to their wounds. When the identities of the attackers become known, the PR nightmare dials up to one hundred. Barely out of their teens, all terrorists are related to Bengal politicians and elite. If Saren coordinated this, his tentacles reach far and wide, much further than either suspected. 

Garrus thinks he knows what’s next. Fly to Bangladesh, no doubt. If he has to, he has the speech ready to convince the commander. _This is your show, Shepard, but I want to bring Saren down as much as you do. I’m coming with you._

Life gets in the way. His speech is fast forgotten. Wrex brings him intel from the cells of Syrian rebels he stays in touch with. Syria is a gunpowder barrel and many factions, government, Russia, Iran, are all rushing to light the fuse. Evidence of the ceasefire brokered by UN back in February unravelling is compelling. Continuing their investigation into the attacks on the camps from afar is going to be near impossible soon. And even if Wrex avoids asking directly, they have a responsibility to move his family to safety. 

So the squad splits. Ashley and Kaidan will ship out to Dhaka with Shepard. Garrus and Wrex will head for Aleppo. Joker will coordinate both operations from Adana. 

“When are you leaving?” Between showers and speed-packing, they manage to steal a quiet moment in the barracks.

“I’m signing out in five minutes.” Shepard’s heading into unknown territory. She’s beyond capable of handling the investigation in Dhaka. Hell, he’s already trusted her with his life. Not many people that can claim that privilege. The thought of her in the middle of the volatile situation though, half a continent away… His stomach twists. 

“Okay.”  The time for arguments is gone. He drinks her in, forehead resting on hers, hands joined at the back of her head. Her hair is wet, cool on his fingers. “Be safe out there.”

“You too, C-Sec,” she smiles, tight and a little wistful.

The kiss he drops on her lips is tender, the most tender they’ve shared yet. Garrus cuts it short, way before the sweetness can erase the taste of bile, high in his throat.

 

06 JUL 2016 1544 (local time GMT +1)

 

The twenty minute drive from Rotterdam airport to a non-descript building in the Escamp district of The Hague passes quickly. Even quicker, it seems, than the past five days. Liara spent each hour mentally debating whether she is making the right choice. Her mother’s business - that has never been something she wanted for herself. Foolishly idealistic, Benezia called her. Fondly, in her own way, although she never did mask the disappointment too well. Idealistic may be too strong a word. Liara prefers to think of it as the right side of history, if even a shred of what Shepard disclosed is true.

The car clears a security barrier with no issues. The armed guard waves them off as soon as the sample swiped off the car handles and trunk test negative for explosives. The driver drops her off in front of a wide entrance. Through revolving doors, Liara spots Shepard’s associate. By the time she confirms the hotel address and luggage drop off details, Tali awaits patiently by the car. Liara shakes her hand and follows her inside, through a metal detector and into a cavern of a building. Her first pit stop is the security office, where her biometrics are registered and her security pass is issued. What could be a painfully complicated process, Tali helps her navigate in barely ten minutes. 

A brief instruction course on information security and encryption protocols later and the two women are free to make their way further into the building, past a two-step authentication door and into a large bunker-like warehouse that echoes their footsteps. Several bays of desks are arranged against one wall. An area at the far back has been partitioned off to create a lab. Shepard and her team moved quickly to equip it to Liara’s specs; much of the equipment is yet to arrive, but Liara can start working already. She eyes the small mountain of evidence boxes stacked in the centre of the room. Jacket abandoned on an office chair, she turns to Tali, fighting off the enthusiasm in her voice.

“So, what in God’s name am I looking for?”

 

06 JUL 2016 1809 (GMT +0)

 

Weaver flies into Heathrow, via Barajas in Madrid and heads straight into the office. He dumps a couple of hats into the team basket, souvenirs from Santiago. Someone left a BLT sandwich on his desk not long ago; the baguette is still firm, the way he likes it. “Has Senior called yet?”

His voice echoes in the sparse space. Ripper replies. “Like clockwork. He’s not happy.”

Weaver snorts. What else is new? “Let me guess. Too slow, too messy.”

“You forgot ‘ _we’re all a bunch of bumbling idiots_ ’,” supplies another voice. Melenis. Usually has headphones plugged in, complains about the noise level in the office often. Unfair, Weaver always thought; they’re hardly running a lads’ outfit. 

“Do we have Netherlands hooked in?”

“Since yesterday evening. Broadcast’s on channel 9. Forensic arrived two hours ago.”

“And the sitrep in Turkey?”

There’s a noticeable pause before Melenis responds. “On the move. Shepard’s on route to Bangladesh, with Williams and Alenko.” 

“And Vakarian?” For a nanosecond, he hopes the answer is _still in Turkey_. No such luck though. Garrus is not one to make Weaver’s life easier. 

“He left this morning, Syria-bound.”

_Fuck._ “Who’s idea was it?”

“Who do you think? Fucking bleeding heart.” 

When Weaver curses, a musical string of words he learned from his Romanian wife, he really speaks for the entire group. They work hard to ensure their operations are successful; ninety nine percent of the time, success means Garrus comes out of whatever situation he’s in alive. And keeping him alive is a full time job. For several of them. 

“Did anyone start scrambling biometrics?”

Ripper nods. “Done. Monitoring started as soon as he left the base. Scraping in progress, usual protocols.”

Five minutes ago, his biggest headache was jet lag. Not any more. _What a clusterfuck._ Weaver can’t blame his friend, not really. Inaction would eat at any one of them. Whether Garrus can help or not is almost besides the point. You don’t stay sane in this conflict if you’re not on the move. Especially after yesterday’s news. “Okay, debrief on Syria in five minutes,” he calls out to no one in particular and gets up to search for Gatorade in the small kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical events - on Jul 1, 2016, Islamic militants stormed a cafe in Dhaka, Bangladesh, killing 20 hostages and 2 police, country's worse terror attack. Creative licence taken on dates and specifics should not detract from the seriousness of this event. 
> 
> Sitrep - a report on the current military situation in a particular area
> 
> *******
> 
> Feedback gives me wings, like Red Bull but with a lasting effect. Thanks for reading. <333

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, especially for the encouragement received for this story's prequel 'Biting'. It is much appreciated - now and always.


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